


a piece of night

by sarcangel



Series: lame superheroes au [2]
Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Superheroes/Superpowers, Multi, Nonbinary Character, Trans Character, Trans Female Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-03
Updated: 2018-10-03
Packaged: 2019-07-24 10:46:34
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 24,932
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16173515
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sarcangel/pseuds/sarcangel
Summary: There’s a charge in the air, a soft electric hum once they’re all together. Zayn catches Harry’s eye, where they’re propped up against the wall - of all of them, Haz is the only other who seems to notice. Tonight, it makes Zayn’s hair stand on end, covers him with gooseflesh. In the half light, they could all be figures carved out of wood - powerful, enigmatic - until Harry picks up one of the marshmallows off the floor and eats it.“You didn’t,” Zayn says.“What?” they ask, raising their eyebrows and evaluating the marshmallows flung around the room. “Were you experimenting again?”





	a piece of night

**Author's Note:**

> big thank you to amy for putting this collab together and HUGE thank you to inga, for her incredible, beautiful art <333
> 
> literally i have no idea why anyone would ever read this. so if you do, please know that you have my undying love and devotion.
> 
> also, this fic has trans characters. while i successfully roped some friends into consultation services for me (thank you, thank you, thank you b, i know you never wanted to get pulled into the wild world of fic and i love you), please also know that i am cis and if any of the trans representation is hurtful or offensive or distasteful or squicky or not comfortable for you, i really genuinely want to know so that i can make it better. <3

"Ciertas noches su piel se cubría de fosforescencias y abrazarla era abrazar un pedazo de noche tatuada de fuego."

\- Octavio Paz, Mi vida con la ola

 

“This isn’t working,” Niall says from the futon-turned-sofa, tossing the marshmallow back in Louis’ direction. He makes a half-hearted attempt to deflect it, his head shifting against Zayn’s stomach as he lazily bats it away. It skitters across the bare floor, ending up against the last stack of boxes piled near the door.

“Weak,” says Louis, not bothering to lift his head. “You’re not even trying.”

“There’s a reason you don’t toast marshmallows with the sun, you dope. I need a lens or magnifying glass to get this to work,” Niall says, hanging over the edge of the futon to look at them.

It’s mostly dark in Niall’s mostly-empty sitting room, where Zayn and Louis are stretched out on the floor, the last lamp standing throwing everything into shadow. Zayn’s back aches and the fingers of his left hand are scraped from banging into the doorway with a crate. The process of moving Niall out has been hard on everyone - Louis threw in the towel first, after narrowly avoiding injury while hauling the actual couch downstairs with Liam. “I’m too young to die,” he’d declared, “also it’s a bloody Saturday night and I’ll lounge if I want to.”

Now it’s quiet, with the telly and stereo long-since packed up. Zayn is extra aware of his heartbeat, the swish of Louis’ head against his stomach, the crinkle of Niall’s ice pack as he repositions it on his knee.

“Told you, you were overdoing it,” Zayn chides. Louis’ hair is sleek and soft under his fingertips; he’s still getting used to its new length.

“It’s just the rain coming on,” Niall says. “It’ll be bucketing down by midnight, I bet.” Except it hasn’t rained all day, not even a mist - first dry day in two weeks, which is why they landed on it for moving night.

The disconnected sound of laughter floats up the stairs, then the rapid thud of footsteps - and then Liam and Harry are crowding the doorway, sucking wind and pushing at each other. Harry’s won the race by a smidge, but they’re both grinning like idiots.

“Go on,” Harry says, making a show of waving Liam through first.

“Are we done yet,” Liam groans, making a beeline for Niall. He lays down directly on top of him, pillowing his head between Niall’s shoulder blades and sighing.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Niall says, shutting his eyes. “There’s one more load left.”

There’s a charge in the air, a soft electric hum once they’re all together. Zayn catches Harry’s eye, where they’re propped up against the wall - of all of them, Haz is the only other who seems to notice. Tonight, it makes Zayn’s hair stand on end, covers him with gooseflesh. In the half light, they could all be figures carved out of wood - powerful, enigmatic - until Harry picks up one of the marshmallows off the floor and eats it.

“You didn’t,” Zayn says.

“What?” they ask, raising their eyebrows and evaluating the marshmallows flung around the room. “Were you experimenting again?”

Niall lifts his fingers to his mouth, pretending to blow them out like candles. “To no effect,” he says. Liam’s head bobs up and down on his back with his shrug.

Zayn gathers himself to stand, nudging Louis’ off of him. Every line of his body protests when he reaches for another box; at least it’s small enough to be easily manageable.

“I wouldn’t, the bottom’s about to break through,” Harry says, leaning over Zayn to give it a jiggle. The shimmery fabric of their wildly patterned shirt undulates in the corner of his eye. Zayn stares at Harry in what is probably not an extremely friendly way. “Sorry, I didn’t know before, or I would have taped it more.”

“That must be helpful,” Louis says, throwing another marshmallow at Niall to get his attention. “All that knowledge, at your fingertips.”

“Yeah, it’s grand,” Niall says, stuffing the marshmallow in his mouth. He chews and continues in an imitation of Harry’s slow drawl. “ _'You’re annoyed with me right now, Niall, let’s talk about it.’_ Or even more useful, the other day they woke me up from a dead sleep to tell me -"

“There were sixteen babies being born, all at the same time,” Harry says for him. “It was morning anyway, don’t pretend you didn’t love it. I’m extremely useful.” Harry’s eyes widen suddenly in accusation; they look wounded, running a hand down their chest. “Heeyyy. You told me you like this shirt.”

“What are you on about?” Niall squirms out from under Liam and stands up, his knee audibly creaking in protest. Liam faceplants into the futon and stays there; has he actually fallen asleep? “I do like that top - tell you that every time you wear it,” Niall says, limping over to Harry. He rubs his hand on Harry’s shirt, looking up into their face. “I wouldn’t lie.”

“Still works,” Zayn laughs, where he’s retaping the suspect box. Just as Harry said, the bottom seam was splitting open; it would have spilled everywhere if they hadn’t warned him.

“Almost every single time,” Harry agrees, slinging their arm over Niall’s shoulder. “That’s the real beauty of it,” they say to Louis. “Having someone who always believes you.”

“You gobshite,” Niall says, smiling and digging his fingers into Harry’s hair. They move their head back into his hand, eyes fluttering closed. “Can’t believe I keep falling for it.”

“Should we finish this?” Zayn asks, waving his hand at the remaining boxes. “If we each take one, we’ll be done.” There’s a collective sigh, but everyone starts moving again; even Liam sits up. Niall reaches down to give Louis a hoist up from the floor, but Louis jerks his hand away at the last second.

“Watch yourself. I’ve just recovered from the last time,” Louis says, scrambling up on his own and angling himself behind Zayn.

“Christ, Louis, that was months ago,” Niall says. Louis’ breath is hot on Zayn’s palm, where he’s clamped it over Louis’ mouth, muffling any kind of retort - expecting the nip that comes, and the tiny jolt of desire.

“All right, then,” Liam says, cheerfully heaving himself off the futon. “Let’s get to it. Not you, Niall,” he says pointedly, as Niall experimentally hefts a box. “Think you’d better sit this one out.”

“But -" Niall starts, setting his jaw. If Niall truly decides to dig his heels in, there’ll be no point in fighting him on it.

“No buts, Nialler,” Liam cuts him off. “Don’t make me use my dad voice. You’ve helped loads. Besides, you’re going to have to carry all of this back in - without this lot.” He nods at the group. Niall makes a face but doesn’t protest further.

“I’ve heard your dad voice,” Louis adds. “It’s not scary, by the way.”

Outside, a light drizzle has started - Niall was right, after all, though it’s barely more than vapor. The smell of rain and dropped leaves eddies through him; fall and nostalgia, catching in his throat. The street lights and house lights blur in the mist as they load the last of the boxes into the borrowed lorry, closing the back hatch with finality.

“All right,” Harry says, softly, pushing their hair off their forehead. “That’s it, then.”

The flare of Zayn’s lighter is bright in the inky dark. He huddles on the studio’s stoop, handing cigarettes out among them like contraband; even Harry takes one. Their tentative exhales swirl out like dragon fire, or its aftermath.

“It’s cold,” Harry complains, burrowing their nose into Zayn’s neck.

“Put a jumper on,” Liam offers, putting his free arm around Harry. “Warm you right up.”

“Brilliant,” Louis says, “we’ll just pluck one out of the air, then.”

Back upstairs, the single lamp and shoddy sofa are the only things left in the sitting room. Louis flings himself down on it, dragging Liam and Harry with him, one on each side.

“Oi, Liam, he says, through a face full of Harry’s hair, “is Bear ready for the match tomorrow?”

Shoved into the other corner, Liam stretches his legs out across their laps. “He’s proper excited, it’s beautiful,” he says, eyes crinkling as he smiles. “He’s been practicing a lot, you know...”

Zayn finds Niall in the kitchen, leaned up against the counter by the sink, chewing on a fingernail. He’s staring at the wall, eyes unfocused, a green bottle of something next to him on the counter. He offers Zayn a wobbly smile, relaxing when Zayn slings an arm over his shoulder. Settling into Niall’s warmth, he enjoys the quiet. He could fill a whole book with the comfortable silences they’ve had in this kitchen; this is just one more in a long line.

Will those memories keep, here? Etched like cave paintings in the plaster kitchen walls, stampeding out like elephants when the new tenants disrupt their sleep? All the moments he’ll carry with him: those first days after Gigi left, getting pissed and passing out - once or twice, even on this kitchen floor. The truly weird shit they’ve recorded at three a.m., under the influence of that strange drug of being up all night with people who know you from every angle. He hopes it keeps them up at night, whoever lives here next - hopes it sifts into their sleep, kaleidoscopic.

“It’s going to be different, now,” Niall says, on the same circuitous path. “Someone else being here.”

“Mmm,” Zayn agrees. “It’s good, though, yeah?”

“Yeah,” Niall says, resting their heads together. “It will be. Nervy, though. Do you think…” He gnaws on his cuticle. “Do you think we’re really ready?”

“You’ve lived with Harry before,” Zayn reminds him.

“I know that. But it’s been donkey’s years and it was different, then. We were different.”

“Mate,” Zayn says. “I’m no expert, don’t have a track record of success. But -” he grabs Niall’s hand, moves it away from his mouth. “You’re ready. I’ve never met two people more ready - you’re disgustingly domestic, can’t even imagine what it will be like when you’re living together.”

“All right,” Niall says, exhaling. “OK.”

Harry wanders in, looking happy but nervous as shit. Visible relief flits over their face when they see Niall.

“There you are,” they say. They stop mid-step, looking between Niall and Zayn for a second. “Oops, am I interrupting? I’m just...” they exhale. Zayn and Niall reach out at the same time, and then Harry’s arms octopus around them. It should be too tight or too hot, standing there with their heads squashed together, the edge of the countertop digging into his back. Zayn lets his hope and affection leak out and wash over them.

“I love you both,” Zayn says, letting go. The two of them stare at him solemnly, as if he’s about to impart some massive wisdom. It’s how Louis must feel all the time in front of his students. “Be good. Ring me if you need anything.” He turns his head to address Niall directly. “Unless it’s to dispose of a body in the middle of the night. I’m fond of Harry, here. And I like sleep.”

“Ouch,” Niall says, squeezing Harry’s hip.

“Think that’s more of a Liam thing anyway,” Harry says. “Showing up with a shovel at midnight, prompt and ready to dig.”

“What was that?” Liam asks, strolling into the kitchen with Louis close behind.

“Nothing, just pure stupidity,” Niall says, turning to pick up the bottle on the counter. “Ready for a toast? Packed all the glasses, I’m afraid. So we’ll just have to -” he mimes drinking straight out of the bottle.

“Have at it then,” Louis says.

“Cheers,” Niall says, lifting the bottle. “To all of you. Thank you, couldn’t have done it without you.” He drinks and passes the bottle to Harry.

Harry hefts the bottle with ceremony, tapping each of them on the chest with it. “May the worst day of your past be the best day of your future,” they say, and take a drink.

“Are you trying to out-Irish me?” Niall asks, poking them in the arm.

The whiskey burns down Zayn’s throat, tight as it is. The buzz in the air snugs around him like a scarf, as they each drink in turn. Then Liam sets the bottle down; it clinks against the counter and the spell is broken.

“All right,” Harry says, with finality, and they all head back out to the sitting room.

“Do you have someone lined up to rent already?” Louis asks.

“Nah,” Niall shakes his head. “Might see how it goes, hoping it to let it out to bands coming to record their stuff.”

“Could turn it into a practice space,” Louis says speculatively, surveying the room.

“Dunno, man,” Liam says, steering Louis out with an arm over his shoulder. “Would have to make it fireproof, probably.” They start down the stairs.

“Can’t even toast a marshmallow, don’t think we need to worry about catching fire,” Harry says, hovering by the door as Niall does one last pointless check of the room.

“See about warming your toes tonight,” Niall says, crossing over to them and standing on tiptoes to kiss the tip of their nose.

Zayn turns off the last lamp and Niall closes the door behind him; the _snick_ of something ending echoes loudly down the staircase. Why he’s so bloody sentimental about a place he never even lived, he’ll never know. Maybe it’s just a night to be broody.

The wind has picked up outside, snatching their hasty goodbyes to carry them somewhere else. “See you Friday,” Liam shouts out the car window.

The air is chilly on his face and hands as he watches Harry start the lorry, the smeared glow of the tail lights as they drive away. Louis is waiting patiently for him, which is remarkable. Zayn eyes the sky, still misting, like it can’t decide what it wants to do - he can relate to that, right now.

“We’re still going to mine, right?” Louis asks. His fingers are cold against Zayn’s as he links their hands together; he looks about as done as Zayn feels.

“As long as you have enough energy to make it there,” Zayn says, tugging him closer. “Don’t want you to overdo it, or anything.”

“Fuck off,” Louis says, drawing him in for a lingering kiss. He tastes like rain and whiskey, sweet and deep. “I was saving my energy for the match tomorrow.”

“You’re such a liar,” Zayn says, pulling back. “I noticed, you know.” He turns them down the pavement to start the walk to the train station.

“Noticed what?” Louis pulls on his hand.

“You tapping out just when Niall started limping,” Zayn says. The wind blows down the neck of his jacket, he hunches his shoulders against its curious fingers.

“It wasn’t -” Louis protests.

“It was,” Zayn says, tightening his own fingers around Louis’ and stuffing their joined hands into his coat pocket.

“Well don’t tell anyone,” Louis sniffs. “It will ruin my reputation.”

How they don’t fall asleep on the train is a minor miracle, but they probably have the short ride to thank for it. Either way, it’s a near thing. They drag themselves up the stairs to Louis’ flat, Louis half-hauling Zayn. He’s got just enough left to tug off his trousers and fall into bed, just enough to wrap himself around Louis, who burrows into him with a sigh. Then they’re out, dreams curling like yellow smoke around the city.

**~~~**

The next morning is damp and the kind of cold that makes Zayn’s lungs ache on his walk home, kicking through the leaves plastered to the pavement by last night’s rain. It helps to clear out his foggy head; it’s too early to be up, but all he got for sleep after Louis left was the shitty half-sleep that counts for nothing. He passes the studio as he gets closer to home - all the windows are dark and it’s a strange feeling, although he doesn’t know why they wouldn’t be; none of them ever worked on Sunday.

Inside, he drops his jacket on the couch and drops some fresh crickets into Arnie’s tank. In the shower, last night’s heavy lifting and this morning’s heavy funk swirl together down the drain. He rests against the tile for longer than he should, waiting to feel lighter. The drafting table is looming in wait when he comes back out, toweling his hair.

It’s easy to sink into a project on a day like today, with nothing but the wind echoing outside and the quiet sounds of Arnie eating in his tank. Rifling through his pens, he uncaps one at random, and the familiar whiff of ink shoots through him - charcoals are no good today, there are too many hairs and tiny details that can’t be smudged.

Working on bees, he’s learned a lot of really great words. _Ocelli_ , the simple eye. There’s something appealing about that, an organ just for sensing light and dark. _Corbicula_ , the pollen basket: a trickster god, winged like a crow and thirsty for blood. _Trochanter_ , just a segment of the leg - but it sounds wicked, could be a band name. _Trochanter Florist. Prolapsed Trochanter._

He loses himself in it for a while, the soothing scratch of the pen against paper, while tiredness sifts into him like sand. This bee lifting off a leaf, pollen clinging to its legs in little round balls. That bee diving into a shaggy cornflower, face buried in the bloom. But sleep is like a warm hand pulling at his bones, his head is so heavy; it’s time to put the pen down when the bees blur in front of him as if actually in flight.

Crawling into bed, the pillow makes a cool contrast on his cheek - just for a few, just long enough to take the edge off. He’s at that point of almost-sleep, body impossibly heavy, when the mattress shifts beneath him. He sighs and reaches out, relaxing even further into the familiar smell of Louis’ sweat mixed with mud. It’s one of the weird magics Louis has, making everything feel good; making everything good feel even better.

“God, I love it when you’re like this, all sleepy and broadcasting.” The tickle of Louis’ voice soft in his ear spreads through him in tiny shivers. “I’m not magic.”

Louis presses a kiss to his throat, sliding his freezing hands up Zayn’s shirt. It’s horrible and excellent, the push and pull of it. Eyes still closed, his skin dances and shudders under Louis’ cold fingers. Louis’ mouth dives in, sharp like a seagull, and everywhere he kisses comes awake.

“Not true,” he mumbles, as Louis tugs Zayn’s top up over his head, traces his lips over Zayn’s chest. “You are a magician.”

“Hmmm?” Louis asks. The cool air hits Zayn’s legs, and then the warmth of Louis’ breath; light as a moth now, his hair like silk under Zayn’s hands.

“Just made my clothes disappear. Poof.”

“You nutter,” Louis kisses his kneecap. “Will you open your eyes?”

He doesn’t need to open his eyes, is the thing - he can feel the lights blooming under his skin, everywhere that Louis brushes his lips and hands, until he’s nothing but a luminescent aggregate of feeling good. But he does want to see, he loves watching Louis like this - sure enough, he’s lit up like a torch. Tiny stars run up and down his limbs, sparking on and off every time he breathes.

Louis winks up at him, laughter in his eyes, and Zayn’s got just enough time to brace himself for the ice water trickle that hits the back of his neck as Louis takes him in his mouth, and he’s lucky, lucky, lucky. Louis’ mouth is hot and tight, ripping noises out of him, gathering those lights like a wave. And just like a wave, it rolls out of him as he tenses and spills; he’s got just enough wits left to reel it in before it surges past the walls of the flat.

Ten million years later he falls back into himself, a human being again. Louis is up by his face, head pillowed on Zayn’s shoulder.

“Let me,” he murmurs, fumbling for Louis.

“Don’t need to,” Louis says, sounding sleepy and threading their fingers together.

“Want to,” Zayn says; he’s got just enough energy left to protest.

“No, I mean.” Louis shakes silently with laughter. “You don’t need to. I’m lucky, too.”

“Oh,” Zayn says. “Cool.”

“Guess you’re the wizard, after all,” Louis yawns, cuddling closer. “Wielding your sex magic on me.” In another minute, he’s asleep, heedless of the mess they’ve made.

Since life is like that, Zayn’s finally, oddly energized. There’s a bunch of other things he should be doing: his actual job, the washing, something. But their time together is so limited, lately, he’s reluctant to leave the bed. He gets out long enough to put the kettle on and grab his soft-tipped markers. Louis will wake up soon, in his experience. By the time Zayn’s back, he’s starfished across the bed - and he’d be embarrassed by the way his heart trips all over itself, still, but there’s no one awake to hear it.

Zayn settles gently on the bed, holding his breath as he inches the duvet down Louis’ torso - but Louis doesn’t move, he’s safe for now. Uncapping the first marker carefully, he gets to work.

It’s the screaming of the kettle that wakes Louis up, gracefully for once, a few minutes later. Zayn hustles out of bed to turn the burner off, pouring out two cups of tea. Louis is fully awake and waiting for him, when he pokes his head around the canvas screen that blocks off the sleeping area from the rest of the flat.

“Morning,” he blinks, still sleepy. He smiles and pats clumsily at the bed. Zayn settles cross-legged on top of the covers. “I missed you,” he says, reaching out to run his fingers over Zayn’s kneecap.

“How was the game?” Zayn asks, as Louis stretches. Nestled in the duvet, short hair spiked up all over the place, he looks like a feisty dinosaur, newly hatched out of its egg. He’d like to draw him like that -

“Oh, no you don’t,” Louis says, sitting up and pulling the sheets to his chin. “I’m not sitting for another portrait right now.”

“I didn’t want to draw you, anyway.” Zayn says, tracing his finger down the edge of Louis’ jaw. “Such an ego.”

“That’s a lie and you know it,” Louis smiles against Zayn’s finger, now poking into his cheek. “You get that look on your face. Like you’re seeing me and not, all at the same time.”

Zayn flicks his nose. “Take a shower, you’re a mess.”

“I’m your mess, you mean.” Louis’ jaw cracks with an enormous yawn, dropping the sheets as he stretches again. “Suppose I should, then.” He scratches his chest, finally looking down; his eyes get huge. He touches the giant bee Zayn’s drawn there, tracing the lines with a fingertip. “Zee. This is sick. Did you take a picture?”

Zayn shakes his head and sweeps his fingers over it, it’s only slightly smeared. “You’re bee-dazzled.”

He skims his mouth over Zayn’s, quick and light. “You’ve been spending too much time with Haz, puns like that.” Climbing out of bed, he walks toward the edge of the canvas screen. He takes his time, so Zayn can watch. The contrast of his football tan against the smooth paleness of the rest of his body is a whole subject, he could study it for days.

“How was the match?” Zayn asks again, before Louis disappears entirely.

“We won,” Louis says, over his shoulder. “You were my spoils.” A few seconds later, Zayn hears the click of the shower door, the steady rhythm of spray.

It’s an otherwise quiet afternoon. Louis works on lesson plans while Zayn chips away at the illustration, which has become slow-going. It’s the honeycomb that he can't get right, the fractal coming out either too uniform or not uniform enough, each time.

It’ll be bats next, for the pollinators project. He and Amber divvied up them up by what they liked best - and he loves bees, but can’t wait to get into the rich charcoal work ahead. For once, he’s almost impatient to move on, if he could get the bleeding pattern right. It’s no good. The pen feels like it doesn’t belong in his hand. He bangs his head against the drafting table’s glass top and scraps another attempt. Maybe a different medium would help, or different hands; a different brain, that can move his fingers in the right way.

His hand aches and the walls of the flat are getting tight around him, squinching his ribs, when Louis’ muttering breaks through. “Shitting KS1 standards. _The pupil can segment spoken words into phonemes and represent these by graphemes_ ,” he sounds testy, pointing accusingly at his laptop screen. “I don’t know, Headteacher, can she? Can I? Can you? Can we? Was it just too fucking hard to say ‘sounds of the alphabet,’ instead?”

Zayn tosses a crumpled piece of paper at him, getting his attention. He cracks up at the gobsmacked look on Louis’ face, laying his face down on the drafting table when his own laughter gets a bit shrieky.

“Think we’ve both gone barmy,” Louis says, closing his laptop with a flourish.

“We could get out of here for a bit,” Zayn says, assessing. It doesn’t look like it’s raining outside, although it’s really too dark to tell. Frustration morphs into hunger, fiercely. It’s gotten later than he realized.

“Let’s do a walk, brilliant. Could go for some food, too,“ he raises his eyebrows, holding back a smile. “Unless you were going to cook?”

Zayn throws another piece of paper at him.

“Oh, look - your bees are finally flying.” Louis tosses it back.

“It’s your night to cook, fuck face, like you didn’t know that.”

With the wind died down and the streets pitch-black and empty, the familiar walk to find food is almost otherworldly. These night walks have become one of his favorite things about the fall - they smoke and talk about their day, or work, or sometimes nothing.

“Saw Peter at the game today,” Louis says. “Another major victory, since I didn’t have to talk to him at all.”

He’s quiet, carefully exhaling all the way before he replies. “He’s a dick who didn’t deserve you.” He bites back the rest of what he wants to say; they both came with baggage, they’re both still working through it. He’s never asked Louis if he’s constructed entire elaborate daydreams about punching Gi in the face.

Shitty pizza from down the street ends up being enough of a walk for both of them. By the time they get back, the flat’s transformed again – now a warm bright square, holding back the aphotic night, all its cold mysteries.

“How our love has faded,” Louis says, jiggling the pizza box.

“Been meaning to talk to you about that,” Zayn says, seriously. “You don’t bring me flowers.” Leaning over the pizza box, he kisses Louis lightly.

“Don’t make me drop this.” Louis hefts the box. “We’ll both regret it.”

“But what a way to go,” Zayn says, brushing their lips together again.

Louis plunks the box down on the coffee table, while Zayn rifles through a kitchen drawer, coming up with a joint. “Can we watch another movie from the list?” Louis asks, settling in on the futon.

Zayn wedges himself between Louis and the side arm. “Budge up,” he says, wiggling his hips to make more room. “Didn’t you want to run lines?” he asks, tracing shapes against Louis’ knee. He lights the joint and hands it over.

Louis shrugs. “Eh. Rehearsals don’t start for a few weeks. Plus, I’d know Twelfth Night in me sleep, could probably do every part if I had to. Oliva’ll be a piece of cake. Although running lines with this might be an interesting experience. Definitely comedy.” He hands the joint back to Zayn, picking up the remote control. “What number are we up to, then?”

Tucked against his side, the vibrations of Louis’ voice crawl all the way up his rib cage, settling into his chest cavity. There’s a reason it’s a cavity - he’s been waiting for Louis to fill it up, all these years. “Number eight. Company.” Zayn plucks the remote out of his hand to pull it up on Netflix, and they’re off. “You’ll like the main character’s name.”

“Yeah?” Louis asks, reaching again for the pizza box.

“Yeah,” Zayn says. “It’s mysterious and sexy.”

“Just like me,” Louis says, around a mouthful of pizza.

~~~

It’s just past midday when Zayn steps out on the studio’s balcony for a breather, drawing the pervasive damp deep into his lungs. The world is immolated, late October leaves brighter under the gray sky. There’s no way he knows of to paint their earthy, acid smell, the texture of nostalgia that always comes with fall. Might be worth getting the oils out, just to see. The sliding door opens behind him.

“Can I bum a smoke?” Liam asks. His eyes are dark, and his mouth is drawn tight at the corners. It’s about the most drained Zayn’s ever seen him - even his tireless optimism is stretched thin.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, fumbling one out of the pack for him. They stand in silence for a while, the wind whipping their smoke out over the garden: Liam, looking out into the trees; Zayn holding his frustration tightly, to stop it leaking out with his breath.

It’s been a tough writing session. Everyone is wrung out - him, Liam, the band. Anita’s one of the most gifted drummers he’s ever worked with, and Daniel’s vocals float above it, raspy and eerie. But capturing that thing they do, the spark they have when they’re live, playing off of each other, turning the room into a whole other world. That’s the magic they haven’t been able to bottle yet.

“Any ideas?” Zayn asks.

“Not as such,” Liam says, squinting up at the sky. “You know them a bit more, what do you think?”

“Dunno, do I?” He shrugs and scratches at the stubble on his jaw. “If I did, we’d be in there recording, not smoking out here like broody teenagers.”

“Suppose you’re right,” Liam says, tiny puffs of smoke lurching out while he laughs. “Not exactly like you, to get stuck on songwriting, is it?”

“They’re just...it’s -” It’s hard to put into words, is the thing. “Have you watched any of the videos I sent you?”

“Not yet,” Liam admits, extinguishing his cigarette against the stone side of the house. “Kind of wanted a clean slate, if I’m being honest about it.”

Zayn reaches over to push him, just enough to make Liam sway. “Then why’d I send them? Louis will skin me alive if I don’t make it tonight.” And he might, really. It’s been rough, lately, though good for the studio: more bands have been finding them, balancing out the film work. With it has come lots of later nights and unpredictable hours, lots of crawling into bed when Louis is already asleep.

“Guess we better get back to it, then,” Liam says.

“After you,” Zayn says, gesturing him to go ahead.

Anita’s playing Chopsticks loud as she can on the live room piano when they make it back in. “Figured it out!” she shouts at them through the glass, smile blazing off her face. “This is gonna be brilliant!”

“She can’t sit still, you know,” Daniel says from the sofa, looking apologetic. He finishes off his tea and stares into the bottom of the cup for a long moment, unblinking.

“Been doing that all day, bro,” Zayn says, nodding at the cup. “Found what you’re looking for, yet?”

“Fuck off,” Daniel says, smiling up at him as the piano gets louder in the background. “Between the two of you, you’re driving me mad. Doomed to spend my life surrounded by you intense-types.” He goes back to his notebook, still opened uselessly on his lap. It’s the least fancy journal Zayn’s ever seen in the studio, just a spiral-bound notebook. Daniel’s not got a lot of lyrics to show for their writing day - the page is mostly filled with badly-drawn cats.

“Can I ask,” Liam starts, as Anita switches over to something else, teasing the edge of Zayn’s brain with its almost-reggae rhythm. Daniel’s head swivels automatically to where Anita is visible behind the glass, a true smile flickering across his face this time. “Just as an outsider looking in, here. How do you normally write?”

Daniel pulls himself away from whatever message Anita is trying to send, brown eyes intent on Liam. Zayn holds his breath, waiting for his reply. And he always wants Louis around, misses him constantly when they’re on such different schedules, but never in his life has he wanted so badly to blink and make him appear out of thin air, to grin and zap a fucking answer out of Daniel’s slightly open mouth. Zayn’s asked them this exact question at least seven times and they’ve yet to get something productive out of it. But Anita’s busy, still banging away on the piano - Daniel’s not usually on his own, maybe his answer will be different this time.

“Usually we just…” Daniel trails off, swirling the last drops of tea in his mug. In the background, Anita stops playing. “As we go. Screwing around in soundcheck, or sometimes we just make something up during encore.”

“Can we...try that, maybe?” Zayn asks. “Like…”

“Improv,” Anita says, leaning on the doorframe. “I like it.” Her dark hair is wild, half out of its braid; it’s always a progression through the day, he could time-elapse the state of it to tell the time. Ten in the morning: perfect and precise. Nine at night: full mermaid.

“Let’s just make some noise, yeah?” Zayn says. “Everyone, pick an instrument. Something you don’t normally play.”

“Bagsy I’m on drums,” Daniel says. Anita’s eyebrows climb up her head. Daniel looks wildly gleeful for half a second until he gets control over his face.

“No pressure, man.” Liam laughs and claps him on the shoulder, pointing him toward the live room.

“Well. If you’re drumming,” Anita stalks into the isolation booth, flipping them off on the way.

They might finally be onto something. At the control panel, Zayn flicks the button to start recording. Daniel settles at the drum kit, holding the wire brushes thoughtfully. After a moment, his hands meander into something jazzy, hesitant at first. He’s better than Zayn expected, but he shouldn’t be surprised - as far as he knows, Daniel and Anita have been living in each other’s pockets for the better part of a decade now.

It takes a minute for Anita to start singing. Glassed off from everyone, she twists with her hands like she doesn’t know what they’re good for if they’re not banging on something, finally shoving them into her back pockets. She’s less comfortable than Daniel, although her voice is good - not remarkable but true; the notes she picks are notes she can hit. She’s singing in Spanish, a low narration, and it suits what Daniel’s doing, puts muscle beneath it.

Zayn glances at Liam, whose look of surprise matches his own. “What’s she singing?” Liam asks, sitting next to him at the control panel.

“No idea,” Zayn says, adjusting the reverb on Anita’s vocals. “Could be her grocery list, for all I know.”

“That’s better,” he says, nodding at Anita. “Guess it’s the big shop, though. Lots on the list.” Liam tilts his head, listening. “Gonna turn up the volume on the snare, I think. All right?”

“You know it’s all right,” Zayn snorts. “Why you’re here, isn’t it?” Liam’s right; with the snare turned up, it’s better balanced with the high hat.

“I am the drum man,” he agrees, pleased. “How long should we let them go on?”

“Few more minutes, I think,” Zayn says. “See if something starts to click.”

They’re interrupted by a soft knock at the door. Liam swivels to look, just as Emily pokes her head through. As many times as they’ve told her she doesn’t need to, she persists in knocking.

“Uh, Mr. Payne?” she asks, edging partway into the room. Zayn is careful to swallow his laughter when Liam shuts his eyes for the briefest of seconds. She might be an intern, but she’s not that much younger than they are - not young enough to warrant _mister_ , anyway.

“What’s up?” Liam says, eyes crinkling up as he smiles.

Emily hesitates in the doorway. “I’ve got to be off soon, have my night class tonight. Niall - er, _Mr. Horan_ is still with the crew from the film,” she looks down at the floor, studying her shoes. “Earlier, you said...”

“Do you need one of us to mind the desk?” Liam starts gathering his things, squeezing Zayn’s shoulder on the way out. Zayn stops paying attention, because something interesting is happening.

Anita’s turned in the booth, finally, so she can see Daniel. Her rhythmic low chanting curves around Daniel’s drumming - the brushed snare and shimmering cymbal floating overhead, coaxing the drum’s high tones to offset her low rhythm. And it’s brilliant, in that moment, using the other’s instrument in the same way they would use their own, creating something new and chaotic and good. It’s the thing he’s been looking for. Liam will be mad that he missed it.

For a few more minutes they’re in synch, then Anita loses the words. She scrunches up her face, and they both start laughing; Daniel retracts the brushes and tosses the sticks into the air.

“That was actually good,” Zayn says, stopping the recording. Anita bursts out of the isolation booth, still laughing. “What were you singing?”

“An old story,” she says, grin stretching wide. “Just to get under his skin.”

“I didn’t realize you still knew it so much,” Daniel says, beelining out of the live room towards her.

“Por supuesto,” she says, tapping his nose. “Wrote my thesis on it, after all.” Zayn feels like he’s intruding, all of a sudden. When they get like this, the energy between them snaps through the room. He can’t imagine what it would be like to see a gig in person.

He clears his throat. “Cool. But we’re not done yet,” he says. “Save the cuddling for later.”

“Piss off,” Anita says, while Daniel blushes and takes a step back. “How many moments have we had to sit through between you and yours?”

“Picking a fight won’t get you out of doing work,” he says, rolling his eyes. “Think of who I associate with.” He leans back over the chair, stretching out his spine. “Come on, it’s time to flip it. You,” he points at Anita, “go to your home.” Her eyes light up. “Pick something different, though, yeah? Not the kit, this time.”

Zayn herds Daniel toward the isolation booth, slipping a pair of headphones over his ears. In the live room, Anita has scooped up the castanets, prowling around while she waits for them. “Now,” Zayn says. “I’m going to play you back your tracks. And -”

“And we’re going to record to them,” Daniel finishes. He touches his microphone gently, closing his eyes in relief.

Castanets end up being a great vehicle for Anita’s frustration. Her left hand taps out the steady heartbeat of the song as she continues to move around the room; her right hand a flurry of frustration, the yelping dog gated in the garden.

Daniel’s in the booth, tracking Anita’s movement intently as he sings. He’s not singing in English but the way he’s focused on Anita, Zayn has no doubt about what he’s singing, this time. What Louis would do with that potential, if he were there - he doesn’t have to wonder about that either.

Zayn lets them go on for a good ten minutes before he calls it. “All right, babes,” he taps on the glass to get Anita’s attention, and beckons David out of the booth. “Let’s give it a listen, yeah?”

Anita crosses behind him, momentarily looking down at the control panel. She groans and flops down onto the sofa. She’s still got her castanets, idly clicking them while she waits for Zayn to queue it up. Daniel’s the one who can’t sit still now, like they’ve somehow swapped roles, pacing the narrow lane between the couch and production area.

“Better you than me, Zee,” she says. “I like working with my hands, but how you figure that machine is beyond me.”

“Shhh,” he says. “Listen.”

He starts with the first track, Daniel’s drumming rushing out, gentle and deliberate. It builds from there, adding in Anita’s vocals. Layer by layer, he adds tracks and it grows - making beautiful chaos, an ugly layer cake; discordant for long stretches and then synching up for a few seconds before it falls apart again.

“It’s good,” Zayn says, half-turning to see them better. “Do you like it?” As many times as he’s had these moments, the breakthroughs that come out of nowhere and _boom_ a song is built - he’ll never get over it.

“I love it,” Daniel says, coming to stand directly behind him. Anita nudges Daniel with her foot, where she’s sat on the couch, and he drops down onto her lap.

“It’s wild,” she says, wrapping her arms around him and grinning up at the ceiling.

“It’s something,” Zayn agrees, hands flying over the switches. There was a thing, a minute back - and there it is, he’s got it, one of the longer stretches where everything colliding together makes sense. “Check this out.”

He plays them back what he just looped, and Daniel sits straight up. “Do that again, but add that longish bit right before.” He hauls himself off Anita’s lap and legs it back into the vocal booth.

Not sure what’s going to happen, Zayn starts recording as soon as Daniel gives him the thumbs-up. The highest part of his range scratches out, spare and haunting, uncoiling over the combined beats of their drumming and Anita’s low vocals. Whatever harmonies he’s aiming for, he hits them, and it lifts the hair on the back of Zayn’s neck. A few loops through, Daniel nods and signals Zayn to stop recording.

“Lyrics usually come last,” Daniel says, apologetically, coming back to sit next to Anita. “I’ll just pluck them out of the air when we’re ready.” The energy lighting him up has extinguished. He yawns, laying his head back against Anita’s shoulder.

Zayn thumbs his phone to check the time. It’s a little earlier than he thought, which won’t kill him for once. “This all right as a stopping point? We’re pretty much to the time you booked for today.”

“It’s good, man,” Daniel says. “We know you’ve got somewhere to be.”

“Probably time for us to call it as well,” Anita says, stretching as she stands. She starts gathering up Daniel’s collection of tea mugs - they’ve been tidy, otherwise; Niall always appreciates that. “Give Louis hell for us!” she says over her shoulder as she walks out.

Liam’s still at the desk when he gets downstairs, headphones on; they’ve a narrow window between when they have to leave to make it on time. Liam’s shoulder jumps under his hand, and he slides the headphones off. “Startled me,” Liam says. “Your ninja ways.”

“Are you still coming tonight?” Zayn asks, looking down at his phone: no texts from Louis, so the plan is still on.

Liam nods. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. Do you think they’ll be in costume?”

“It’s the first rehearsal, mate, so I doubt it.”

“Let me just shut down quick.” Liam rolls his chair back toward the desk, bending over the keyboard.

“Right,” Zayn says, “I’ll just go tell Niall we’re leaving.” He hustles down the hallway to the main studio; Niall will get shirty if he doesn’t say goodbye. Through the glass door, he can see him mid-conversation with the client; the lack of expression on her face is concerning. Zayn taps on the window to get his attention, waving goodbye. Niall nods and wrinkles his nose: _pray for me._ He mimes something Zayn interprets as _lock up behind you_ and turns his attention fully back to the client.

Liam’s pulled his car up to the front by the time Zayn makes his way back; he’s got no idea how he got there so fast. Behind the wheel, he’s uncharacteristically quiet as they start the drive to Louis’ school.

 _On our way,_ he texts Louis.

 **Liam too?** Louis asks, a moment later.

 _Wouldn’t miss it_ , Zayn types, sighing in relief as the heat starts trickling through vent.

**Great! Outside doors are unlocked.**

**Let yourselves in.**

“How are things?” Zayn asks, slipping his phone into his jacket pocket. He cracks the window just enough to smoke. It’s a bit before sundown, still; the angle of the sun through the windshield is piercing. He can’t remember the last time he left the studio during daylight hours.

“All right,” Liam says, slowly, so Zayn knows there’s more coming. “Probably the best it could be, considering. Bear’s amazing of course, but -” he grabs Zayn’s cigarette out of his hand, not an easy task while driving, and takes a drag. “It’s hard, you know, seeing Cheryl with someone else. It’s been long enough, I suppose, but it’s not easy, is it?”

“I’m sure it isn’t,” Zayn says, gently, lighting another cigarette for himself. In some ways, although he’s so over it now it almost doesn’t matter, that was the best part about the clean break with Gigi - neither of them had to see the other one move on. “Did you ever think…” he hesitates.

“Just say it, man,” Liam reaches over the center console to nudge him. “No use keeping it in at this point.”

“Did you ever think about seeing someone, yourself?” He exhales, trying to aim it all out the window.

Liam’s quiet for such an extended stretch, it’s as if the car has swallowed his question. They’re close to the school when he answers. “I have, but...she wouldn’t -” he stops. “She wouldn’t go for it, I don’t think.”

“Cheryl?” Zayn asks, confused.

“No, no. The woman I...she wouldn’t go for me. If I asked.”

“Why not?” Zayn asks, anger stinging through him suddenly.

Liam tightens his hands on the steering wheel, staring fixedly at the road ahead. “Don’t know if I could explain it properly. I just -” he laughs, nervously. “Don’t know if I have much to offer. Single dad, odd job. Plus, I’m just myself, aren’t I? And she’s amazing, so.”

“Payno,” Zayn says, exhaling and trying hard to tamp down on his anger. “You’re amazing. Bear is amazing. Anyone would be lucky to have you.”

“Thanks,” Liam says, turning to flash a smile at him. “You’re my friend and you have to say that, but I love you anyway.” He flicks his cigarette out the cracked window. “I’m just not sure what I’d do if she said no. Haven’t had to go through that for a while.”

“But you also haven’t asked,” Zayn says, as they pull into the school’s parking area. “So how do you know?”

“That’s a good point,” Liam says, reaching over to flick him on the knee. “I like this side of you, happily paired and dispensing romance advice. Might commission you to write me a love letter after this.” He puts the car in park; the interior lights are momentarily blinding when Liam opens his car door.

“Think I’ve seen that one, mate,” Zayn says, tapping out a text to Louis: _We are here._  “Maybe fake dating is the way to go - have you got any weddings coming up?”

“Good idea,” Liam says, locking the car doors. “Harry and Niall could give me lots of pointers on that one.”

The school’s auditorium is at the far end of the building, and the exterior doors are unlocked just as Louis said they would be, although they groan loudly when Liam pushes them open. Walking in, he’s rippled over with sense memory: years of floor wax and dust and spit and dreams, mixed around. The stage sits at the front, a bright island in a pool of cadmium yellow, creating an odd perspective in the otherwise unlit room. From the back it looks tiny, flanked by dark burgundy curtains, a handful of miniature people milling about and chatting.

They make their way through the infinite aisles of auditorium seating. Liam looks excited, Zayn’s just trying to avoid attention. It doesn’t work; as they approach the front rows, an older lady on the stage beams at them. She doesn’t say anything, thankfully, just waves towards the seats like she was expecting them. He hears Louis before he sees him, his voice cutting in from off stage, slicing through the chatter of the others gathered there.

“Huddle up, huddle up, everyone.” Louis walks onto the stage, beckoning the cast over. There goes his heart, a big castanet picking up speed. “Bring it in.”

Louis surveys the room while he waits for the cast to wander over. He lights up when he sees them - and Zayn almost literally lights up, a few stars surging into being on his jacket. He has to clamp down furiously or he’ll make a scene, no pun intended. Liam nudges him, smiling smugly.

“Don’t,” Zayn whispers. Louis throws them a quick wave and starts giving directions, and Zayn’s got no time left to be embarrassed.

Louis gives a piercing whistle, moving center-stage **.** The chatter dies down. It’s a group of ten, mostly women, which Louis has told him will work well with Twelfth Night and its history of blurring gender lines. “Does everyone have their stage script? Right. Maria -” he calls out, eyeing the cast. “Which one of you lot is Maria?” For a few seconds, no one offers up; the auditorium is suddenly, mufflingly quiet. Zayn twitches, anticipating the ice that leaks down the back of his neck.

A lumbering bloke shuffles forward - seven feet tall, at least, with a surprisingly sweet face under his beard. “Thinks it’s me,” he says, flipping through the script in his hands.

Louis smiles and pats him on the arm. “All right, Bruce, there we go. Does everyone else know who they’re playing? Where’s my clown?”

An older woman steps up, the same one who ushered them in before, with no hesitation at all. “Here I am, love,” she says. “Where would you like us, then?”

“Stage left,” he says, pointing. “Everyone else go stand in the back.”

It’s weird to see Louis outside of the world they inhabit together; on stage, he’s bright like a flame, flickering everywhere - setting blocking, prompting lines, playing his own role, getting the others on and off stage at the right times.

It takes a while, but they get through all of the first act, somehow. The cast has gotten increasingly punchy for the last quarter-hour. Louis-as-Olivia has the actual last line. He belts out like he’s singing opera, arms spread wide to the imaginary crowd. “Fate, show thy force: ourselves we do not owe/What is decreed must be, and be this so.” Everyone flops down on the stage as soon as he’s finished. “Oi! Quit faffing around and take a proper bow.”

They stand begrudgingly and give a bow, the Clown smiling sweetly at Liam and Zayn’s loud applause. “That was loads better. Do as you will.” He jumps off the edge of the stage and makes his way over.

Liam elbows Zayn aside for the first hug. “That was brilliant,” he says, thumping Louis on the back.

“Hey,” Zayn protests. “You cut in on my hug.”

“You snooze you lose,” Louis says, grinning at him as Liam pulls back.

“Plus you’re always going in for the cuddle, you’ve got to give the rest of us a chance sometimes,” Liam adds.

“Wrong,” Zayn says, edging past him into the aisle, “this one’s mine.” Louis’ skin is warm and tangy with sweat from the hot stage lights, and he actually purrs when Zayn scratches his fingers through the damp hair at the back of his neck. It feels like his whole body pushes into Zayn’s hands.

“Thanks for coming,” Louis says, as Zayn lets him go. “Hope it wasn’t too boring.”

“You were great,” Zayn says. “All of you.”

He grins around, tired but pleased. “Are you still coming for pints with us? You’re invited too, obviously,” he adds, looking at Liam.

“I’d best get home, sorry,” Liam says, shrugging in apology. “Got the sitter waiting on me.”

“‘Course I am,” Zayn says, though he wishes Liam were coming.

“You don’t have to,” Louis rubs his fingers along the inside of Zayn’s wrist. “I know it’s not your thing.”

Over Louis’ shoulder, the cast is reviving; they’ve formed a line, and are stomping around the stage in a circle. Someone - Bruce, maybe - starts a call and response. “To the Roddy’s,” he bellows, leading the line. “Pints await!” the rest shout back.

“I do want to,” Zayn says, bringing his hand down to thread their fingers together. “If you want me to.”

“Well let's get on with it then, before this lot mutinies.” He throws his arms around Liam again, planting a sloppy kiss on his cheek. “Thanks again for coming.” He disentangles himself and walks backward towards the stage.

Roddy’s Bar is a tiny Irish pub with just enough tables left open to push together for the group, who are making a racket in the back while they wait for their drinks.

“I’m glad you’re here,” Louis says, slinking his hand into Zayn’s back pocket. They’re up for first round, waiting at the small bar up front.

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He’s sure that Louis can taste his half-sincerity, but Roddy’s is homey enough. The backlit bottles behind the bar glow just like an advert, ochre whiskeys and silver vodkas, the neon hues of other liquors. “Do you think it’s a little weird that I’m the only plus one?”

Louis’ face softens for a split second. “No. They all get to see their…” Louis looks up at the ceiling, like the right word is written there, “ _people_ when they go home at night. I don’t, always. Also, you’re naturally weird, so.”

Zayn sticks his tongue out. Louis looks so pointedly at it, letting his eyes linger there, that he has to watch the desire fizzing up in his blood before the patrons get a show. “Unseemly,” he says, moving closer to press his lips against the corner of Louis’ mouth. Louis tries to hold him there, but he wiggles away.

“And anyway, we have a tradition: there has to be someone in the audience for first rehearsal.”

“Why’s that?”

“To remind us that it’s real, I suppose - that we’re not just screwing around for a few months on a big stage under big lights. Charlene probably started that tradition, come to think of it.”

It takes two trips to bring all the drinks back to their table. Although Louis has the trick of carrying three glasses in one hand, there’s just no scientific way to manage it in one. They’re greeted with cheers when they show up. It’s not fair to generalize, but it’s a rowdier group than Zayn expected for grammar school teachers. The loudness is comforting, somehow - though he doesn’t know them, they’re not that different than his own sisters and aunties. Thinking of it that way takes the edge off his awkwardness.

Louis pushes him into a stool near the end of the table, taking the last one for himself. Surrounded by strangers’ faces in the indistinct glow of the bar lights, warmed further by the worn wood of the table, he wishes for his paints all of a sudden. It’s one of those scenes: he’d make everyone cats, licking their paws, delicately lapping their drinks out of little glittering bowls.

Louis digs his elbow into Zayn’s side. “Stay with me, now. Let’s do a toast, then you can meet everyone.”

The woman across the table must have hearing like a bat, because she breaks off her other conversation and stands up so quickly, Zayn blinks. “To a good first night,” she intones. “May there be eleven more.” Chuckles spill across the table like shaken dice. Her smile turns sly, and she tilts her glass towards Zayn. “And to meeting this one, a mythological creature. We thought you were made up.”

“Cheers,” Zayn says, laughing over Louis’ token protest, lifting his pint to the group. “I’m real.”

“Here, here,” Louis adds, clinking their glasses together. A finger of cold snakes its way down Zayn’s neck - another table picks up the toast, and pretty soon the entire cramped pub is cheering. The light glints over all the glasses, raised at once in a toast; then the cool malt of lager rinses through Zayn’s mouth, washing anything else away.

Louis introduces him ‘round the table, so obviously happy that Zayn swears he can feel it pouring out of _him_ , for once. It’s funny to learn the cast’s real names compared to the stage names he’s gotten to know: Maria-also-Bruce, Orsino-also-Pamela. He’s sat between Louis and Malvolio-also-Charlene, who seems like a nice older woman; not quite old enough to be his mum, but it’s hard to tell.

Louis leans across him to talk to her. “Bang up job, Malvolio,” he says. “Real excellent villain you’ll make.”

“Well-prepared, aren’t I?” Charlene says, wrinkling her nose at him. “Wait until my monologue about the perils of early truancy.”

“That sounds familiar, actually,” he winks, standing and eyeing the group. He touches Zayn’s shoulder. “Do you mind if I…?” he asks, drawing a circle in the air.

“Don’t let me stop you,” Zayn says, waving him off.

Louis makes his way around the table. He’s in his element, reenacting funny moments, talking about the next rehearsal. Zoning out, fragments of Louis’ voice or laugh emerge from the swell of other voices, like a good smell drifting through an open window. Charlene stirs next to him, as if she’s about to say something. He’s about to fall into the endless sand pit of awkward silence, a place he can inhabit so thoroughly it doesn’t even phase him. If it were just himself, he’d stay there. But Louis likes these people, and they seem nice. He turns more fully to Charlene, who seems to be watching more than conversing, herself.

“Louis says you do this every year?” Zayn asks, playing with the condensation on his glass.

Charlene flashes him a quick smile, laced with gratitude. “We do, yes. It’s an excellent fundraiser for the school. Plus, the parents quite enjoy watching us embarrass ourselves.” She stops to take a drink of her pint. “Or at least some of us. I’m wretched, for example - but a few of the staff are very talented. Like your Louis.” She looks across the table, where he’s doing an impression of Sebastian-also-Joan.

“Do they all volunteer for this?”

She nods, mouth quirking into a half smile. “Mostly, yes. I don’t twist anyone’s arm too hard, but Louis has a way of getting people to say yes. Take Bruce.” She nods to where he’s deep in conversation. “I have to ask him each year - and every time, he whinges and grouses and says he needs to think it over. But then Louis talks to him - I don’t know what he does, but when he walks away, Bruce beelines back to my office and says he’ll do it,” she says, looking bemused.

“Wouldn’t have guessed Bruce for it myself, but he’s good. I can see why you’d want him.”

“Right?” Louis jumps in suddenly from just behind Zayn’s shoulder, close enough that he can lean his head back against Louis’ warm stomach. “And then he shows up like he’s no idea what part he’s even landed, but somehow knows all his lines already. So predictable.” He takes a drink of his lager. “Oi, Bruce,” he shouts, stomach flexing against the back of Zayn’s head. “Next week, we do the whole act again.”

Bruce rolls his eyes, sticking out his bristly lip. “The whole thing?” he groans.

“You’re fooling no one,” Louis says, pointing a finger at him. “You good, Zayner?” he sweeps his fingers through Zayn’s hair, pushing it back off of his forehead.

“Yeah,” Zayn says, tilting his head back to smile up at him. “Don’t need to worry about me.”

“In that case. Sebastian, my brother,” he bellows, getting Joan’s attention. “More pints.” She hauls herself up from the table to get another round with Louis.

“I understand you’re an artist,” Charlene says, drawing him back into conversation. “And a musician.”

Zayn tries not to wince; she’s nice, but if he lined up every version of this conversation he’s had with harmless condescending people over the years, it would stretch from London to Bradford and halfway back again. “That sounds more exciting than it really is, I promise.”

“Oh, I’m not trying to sound judgmental,” she says. “My husband’s an artist, actually. Haven’t an artistic bone, myself. Unless you count budgeting and time management as an art,” she laughs.

“What kind of art does he do?” Zayn asks, being polite.

“He’s a fibre artist.” She holds up her napkin like it’s show and tell, ringed from her glass.

“What medium does he usually work in?” He’s genuinely interested, now. Fibre artists are rare, he’s never really had the chance to work with one.

“All kinds. Right now, he’s working with goat hair, weaving a tapestry,” she makes a face. “It’s quite beautiful, actually, though I’ve had to learn rather more about the different types of goat hair than I expected.”

He laughs. “Occupational hazard. For a piece I’m working on, I had to illustrate a series of moths. And Louis -” he checks, he’s still up at the bar. “Louis got pretty into it. He read that you can make a paste of beer and mashed banana, and paint it on trees, like -”

“He didn’t,” Charlene says, setting down her drink.

“He did. I got home late, right, and find him sitting in the garden with my landlady - camp chairs out, torches ready, just waiting for the moths to come flocking.”

“And did they?” she asks.

Louis is finally on his way back from the bar, hands full; Zayn catches his eye, lets the huge smile break over his face. “Of course. In swoops a huge hawk moth,” he holds up his hand, spreading his fingers wide, “this big, at least, right past his head. Louis and Anna - that’s my landlady - screamed like banshees and ran inside.”

Charlene laughs, throwing her head back. “Classic,” she wheezes, just as Louis and Joan plunk the drinks down on the table.

“Got a good picture of it, though,” he thumbs through his photo feed to find it.

“Oh,” she says, peering over his arm, “it’s actually lovely.”

Louis looks at them oddly for a second. “Someone else can go get the rest,” he announces. “Can’t do all the work around here.”

Charlene jumps up, scraping her stool back. “I’ve got it,” she says, looking pointedly at Bruce, who reluctantly stands to assist her.

Louis grabs two pints and walks back around to their end of the table, making a show of leaning over Zayn to set them down, breath prickling over the side of his neck. He sits without saying a word, just the firm press of his fingertips walking across Zayn’s thigh - he grabs Louis’ hand before it can wander further, trapping it with his own.

The second round goes faster than the first, and soon everyone is standing and making their goodbyes. It’s early, still - they’re in the wide stretch of hours where eating dinner is normal for most people. The sun is a ghost on the horizon as they get into Louis’ car; he’s happy to have the whole night for once, not just the dregs of it.

Behind the steering wheel, Louis gives a cracking yawn. “You and Charlene seemed to get on,” he says. Zayn’s not imaging the edge to it, so sharp it spins through the air.

“She seems all right,” Zayn says, edging right back. “Also, she’s your boss so I had to be nice, didn’t I?” He fishes out a cigarette. The snick of the lighter is satisfying, he can pretend it’s burning up his own sudden surge of anger.

“Soz,” Louis says. “I’m just tired.”

Zayn hums noncommittally, trying to get a reign on his temper. They’ve not had a real knock-down-drag-out yet, but they can both get like this, irritation and tiredness snapping between them, a wind picking at edges of their fabric. Portrait of the artist: mouth tight, smoke a curling wreath around his head. What Louis does next will determine how it goes, in his experience. Tonight, he sighs and reaches for him.

“I’m sorry,” he says, fumbling for Zayn’s hand - and he sounds it. “Really. Actually. Mortifyingly.”

“Truly. Madly.” Zayn says, picking up his hand and pressing his mouth to Louis’ knuckles. “Let’s just go home, yeah?”

“Make up sex?” Louis asks.

“That wasn’t even a fight, babe.”

“It was at least three seconds of solid irritation, though,” Louis counters. “We’ll call it a compromise.” The car lurches suddenly, Louis pulling onto a side street to put it in park.

“What -” Zayn’s interrupted by Louis’ hand, almost unbearably gentle against the line of his jaw, tipping his face up as he leans in. He’s got just enough time to exhale, and then Louis’ mouth is on his.

Eyes closed against the rush of emotion, he lets Louis kiss him, over and over - and each one is different than the last: soft and rough, gentle and full of teeth, the hot twist of Louis’ tongue against his own spilling something fiery in his gut. In the quiet of the car, the wet sounds of their mouths are loud, and it turns him on, the way Louis groans and tries to pull him closer.

Someone’s stomach growls, he honestly doesn’t know whose, and he pulls back an inch. Louis keeps his eyes closed for a few seconds, taking big gulps of air.

“Hi,” Louis says, opening his eyes at last. “Would you like to come home and have non-makeup sex with me?”

“Depends.” Zayn sits back in his seat. He’s got a crick in his side from leaning over the console.

“On what?” Louis asks, wiping the steam off his window. “Because your dick seems pretty on board with the plan.”

“If you’ll make me cheese toasties, after,” Zayn says. “Otherwise no deal.”

Louis stomach gurgles again. “Maybe first, for stamina.” He directs the car back onto the road.

“Smart and fit,” Zayn says. “How did I get so lucky?” He traces a heart with his fingertip through the fog on his window; it’s good enough for now.

**~~~**

If he had to draw the middle of fall, it would be like that: a panel of pub scenes, leaves blowing in the door, windows spattered with rain. Sometimes thinks he wouldn’t see Louis at all during waking hours, if it weren’t for these outings.

But the bells above the door tinkle cheerfully, belying the early November bluster they’re shutting out. The wind pushes him and Louis into the pub with strong hands; he’s got the urge to stamp his feet on the entry mat, but he doesn’t know why.

Jono’s has taken on trivia on Friday nights, a new venture for Edie and her crew, though Edie never works them herself. Team tables are set up against the far wall in the middle of the taproom. A small group of regulars is already settling in - including his own team, who are clustered around a high top closest to the wall. There’s a pool of warmth as they get closer to the table; Niall’s got a pencil behind his ear and his journal on the table. The comforting hum that kicks up when they’re all together tingles up Zayn’s legs.

Louis finds Harry straightaway. “Here, Harry, need to ask you a question.”

“Louis!” Harry’s smile is extra-bright tonight as they pull Louis into a tight hug. “Haven’t seen you in ages.” They’re talking even slower than usual, which is saying something.

“It’s been a week,” Louis says. “At least someone misses me.”

“It’s been two,” Harry says, poking Louis in the chin. “We skived last week.”

“I didn’t,” Liam says, coloring and looking down at the table.

Louis grins and raises an eyebrow. “More about that in a minute, young Liam,” he says. He turns back to Harry. “Come here, I need to consult with you about something.”

Louis starts pulling them away from the table, stopping when Harry almost trips on their own feet - which is not unusual, but everything put together means they’re a lot drunker than Zayn has seen them for a long time, especially this early in the evening. He looks at Niall, who’s gripping the pencil tight enough to snap it.

The bar is on the far-right end of the room, far enough that Zayn can ask what’s going on, once Louis and Harry are on their way.

“Things at work have been shitty,” Niall taps the pencil against his journal. “For Harry, I mean. Hopefully not for you idiots.”

“That sucks,” says Zayn, pulling up a stool. “In what way?”

Niall stabs his pencil down into the paper again. “There’s a new partner came in a few weeks ago. He’s been slowly changing things - dress code, re-assigning clients.” Niall looks up, and his face is wiped of expression, a telltale sign of how truly pissed off he is. “He made some nasty comments about a few clients. As in, the not-white ones. Harry had to confront him. Plus, some other things. It’s almost like - it's just not been very good.”

“Worse than Ben?” Liam asks, frowning.

Zayn doesn’t know who the fuck they’re talking about; Niall must see it in his face. “From the coffee shop way back,” Niall explains. “Dunno, haven’t met the man in person,” he adds, turning back to Liam. “But he’s giving Ben a run for his money, that’s for sure.”

Louis and Harry return, bearing a tray of shots - all clear liquids, which means business - and pints, and Niall shuts up about whatever else is going on. It’s going to be one of those nights, one way or the other. The awareness of it crawls up Zayn’s neck like he’s Harry, gaining knowledge from wherever it is they get it. It’s satisfying, the long weekend ahead with nothing to do but drink and sleep and rediscover all the parts of Louis that he loses during the week.

“To trivia." Harry puts a shot in Niall’s hand and taps their glasses together. They tip their drinks back at the same time; a second later, Harry swoops in to replace the glass against Niall’s mouth with their own lips. They kiss Niall so thoroughly it’s almost indecent - shitty as things must be, Harry’s still Harry, at least.

“To Friday,” Louis says, looking at Zayn with a glint in his eye. Zayn clinks their glasses and they take their shots. Louis kisses him softly, despite Harry’s whooping.

“If I do this, one of you better snog me. I’m not going to be the one left out." Liam holds up the last shot. Harry leans over and plants one on him before he can even drink it. Liam smiles and takes the shot, flushing and pleased.

“Can do you one better,” Niall says, looking over Liam’s shoulder.

Harry’s offended. “You think someone else kisses better than me?”

“Don’t be dumb.” He nods over to the corner table, where Janet is setting up for trivia. “Look, Liam, Janet’s wearing the shirt again.”

Liam’s blush deepens; he takes a healthy drink of his pint and straightens his own top. Janet’s been running the trivia ever since they started coming for it, and - sure enough - she’s got her “Kiss Me, I’m Trans” shirt on, which she and Liam have taken as a personal and escalating challenge the last several weeks since she wore it the first time.

“Your turn this week, isn’t it?” Zayn asks, watching Liam closely; he swallows and nods. For Janet’s turn last week, she made Liam dangle backwards off the bar top, trying to recreate the upside-down kiss from Spider-man.

“Janet, my lass,” Louis calls, in an atrocious Scottish accent. “Give Liam a smooch, for luck.”

She scoffs, sorting out her question cards on the table top. “Too busy, aren’t I?” But she walks over to stand in front of Liam, who has already gotten to his feet. The other tables of regulars start cooing, they know what to expect.

“Well?” she asks him, hands on her hips. “Don’t hold up the show.”

Liam draws her in gently, for all his bravado, and dips her down so low that her dark braids sweep the floor. He brings her up slowly until their mouths meet; it’s a long meeting. She’s got her hands wrapped around the back of his neck when they pull apart, and the look on her face is almost too much - it’s not for theater anymore, if it really ever was **.** Liam puts his mouth by her ear for a minute; she keeps her hands on his neck while she listens. She moves back and looks at him, assessing. Finally, she smiles and nods and lets him go.

“Well, Liam,” Harry punches him in the shoulder, when he sits back down, all smiles. “I think that worked.”

“We’re watching you,” Barry shouts at them, across the way. “Unfair advantage, kissing on the referee.”

Janet just rolls her eyes and taps the mic; it’s on. “Keep your shirt on, Barry,” she says. “If you think a snog is the reason your team takes last every week, that’s probably your first problem.” General laughter breaks through the group. **“** All right. Does everyone know the rules? Anyone need a refresher?” she asks, turning to look pointedly at Harry.

“Heeyyyy. That was one time,” they protest, looking offended. “Heat of the moment.”

Niall pats their back and shoves the scoring pad at them. “Accountant does the scoring. Half plastered or not.”

“If everyone is ready,” Janet clears her throat and continues. “First question. You have thirty seconds to confer. What is the name for the dot over the lower-case letters i and j?”

Everyone sits for a second; they turn at the same time to look at Louis. Not for the first time, the possibility of a hive-mind in humans occurs to Zayn.

“Don’t look at me."  Louis puts up his hands. “Try the magic eight ball over here.”

Harry’s got their head propped in their hand, staring blankly into space. “Nothing,” they shrug, apologetic. “Just ducklings. Did you know -”

“Well, put something down,” Louis says, “before we’re out of time.”

Liam takes a notecard and scrawls an answer. “Could be a trick question, after all, couldn’t it. Going with ‘dot.’”

“Good thinking, good thinking,” Louis says.

Janet gathers the cards and announces the answer. A collective groan goes up, except Saoirse’s table - that lot is cheering smugly.

“Grammarians,” Niall mutters, darkly. “Can’t be trusted.”

“Second question,” Janet says, laughing at the room. “Getting mythological in here tonight. You have another thirty seconds. What are the names of Odin’s two ravens? And add ten bonus points if you know the functional difference between them.”

“Well, that’s easy,” Niall grabs a card.

Even Zayn blinks; Niall’s got a weird body of knowledge that he’s accumulated over time, and the deepest memory of anyone he knows - but it’s still a surprise sometimes. Thirty seconds later, they’re getting double points for it.

“Third question. Forty-five seconds. This founding member of Rukus Avenue Music Group released his first solo album, Tale of a Crown, in 2010.”

Zayn sits up straight, the answer tickling at him.

“You know this,” Louis says, poking him in the arm excitedly. “Zayn.”

“I know. It’s right at the tip of my tongue. I can’t…”

Harry is staring at him fixedly, like they’re trying to pull the answer out of the air between them. And maybe they are, god knows he could use all the help he can get. Louis touches his wrist just as Harry’s eyes get wide, a single ice crystal melts on his spine, and the answer pops into his brain.

“Sammy Chand,” he and Harry say out loud, at exactly the same time. Janet swivels to look at them, pinning them with a glance. Harry winces.

“Penalty,” she announces. “No credit for your team, and I’m striking your last points.”

“Only points, she means,” Niall groans. He and Louis are the real competitive ones in the group, generally speaking.

“Sorry,” Zayn says. “Heat of the moment.”

It’s downhill after that; no one can concentrate. Harry’s too drunk, Liam’s too busy flirting with Janet. Even Louis abandons all pretext of playing, spending most of his energy trying to sneak his hand up the back of Zayn’s top. Janet comes ‘round to collect their final scoresheet. They lose spectacularly.

“What an absolute bloodbath.” Niall shakes his head.

“Dance with me Niall,” Harry says, twisting the hair up off their neck. “Purge the negative energy of our collective loss.”

“I’ve got you,” Niall stands and holds out a hand to pull Harry up. Harry staggers a bit but Niall is steady as ever; they weave their way to the tiny, empty dance area.

Louis drains his pint and sets it down with purpose, fixing Zayn with his most serious look. “Zayn. I need to ask you something.”

“Save the effort. It’s not happening.”

Louis gives him the finger and jumps off his stool, leaning into Zayn’s space. The brief pressure of Louis’ lips is gone before he can do more than kiss him back, although he’s full of ideas of what he’d like to do.

Louis turns and holds out his hand. “What say you, Payno? Should we plant jealousy deep into the heart of our paramours?”

“Once more unto the breach, dear friend, once more,” Liam quotes, smiling widely and taking Louis’ hand.

Harry beams when they arrive, twirling Niall precariously like an incompetent ballerina. The pub’s filling up now. Janet’s back to her usual spot near the bar, helping Martin from time to time, pretending she’s not watching Liam - who’s got no use for pretense, egging Louis into a shimmy-off in a spot on the floor where she can’t miss seeing it.

The next song is so familiar that for three seconds, Zayn doesn’t think anything of it, the shimmering synth eddying around like a summer wind. Niall whoops so loud half the bar turns to look. “Get _in,_ ” he shouts at Zayn, jumping up and down.

It hits him all of a sudden: Wolf Hamper’s finally got their radio tune. He can’t even imagine how proud they’d be right now; he pulls out his phone to record a video even as he stands. Louis takes it out of his hands and propels him the rest of the way over, hand hot on the low part of his back. His friends crowd around when he gets there, their collective glee pouring into him like a vessel - going into him for once, versus out.

“Sorry, friends, not sharing,” Louis yells over the song, pulling Zayn close and starting to sway.

“It’s not exactly a slow song,” Zayn says in Louis’ ear, scratching his fingers down Louis’ back. He’s warm and slightly sweaty below the hemline of his sweatshirt.

Louis arches into him strategically. “I do what I want,” he says, digging his fingers into Zayn’s hips to bring him closer. He brushes his chin against Zayn’s neck, teasing him with the scratch of his stubble; shivers swarm up his body.

“Later,” Zayn mutters, braced against the telltale burst of stars beginning. It’s getting harder lately to hold them in, when they’re together.

“Now,” Louis fires back, grinding on him.

He lets himself get lost in it for a minute: the bridge breaking over them like wildfire, bassline deep and urgent; Louis snaked around him, staking his claim. He likes it, staying on this edge of _just enough_ until he can’t keep it in anymore, or doesn’t want to. Extending a finger of everything he’s feeling - buzzed, wanted, part of something bigger - he wraps it around Louis, who half-smiles, edging even closer. They’re going to get kicked out for indecency at this rate. It’s hard to care.

The song is over, abruptly, and Louis steps back by approximately half a centimeter. “Thanks for the dance,” he says, breathing hard. “Is it time to go yet?”

“Not yet,” Harry appears, hooking their chin over Louis’ shoulder. “You can keep it in your pants for a little longer.”

“You say that,” Louis says. “But I know you don’t follow those rules.”

“They’ve a nice loo here,” Harry says, waggling their eyebrows. “If you can’t. Keep it in your pants, that is. And by “it,” I mean -”

Niall pulls them away, just in time. “Leave them alone.”

Louis lets go of Zayn. “Feel free to return to your normal scheduled wallflower activities.”

Back at the table, he floats on his residual buzz, like warm honey instead of blood courses through him. Love Shack erupts next from the speakers, and Niall and Harry are going to brain someone with their flailing limbs - he can hear Niall’s cackle even over the song. His phone buzzes in his back pocket.

 **Confirming for next weekend** , says his mum. **Would Louis like anything special for meals?**

 _He’ll eat anything,_ Zayn replies, _are you really worried about it?_

**Just want him to be comfortable**

**We’re all excited to meet him**

_I’m excited too. Don’t worry, everything will be fine_

He can’t wait to show Louis his home, the places that meant the most to him when he was growing up. Although it’s weird to think about Doniya getting engaged - the same person who cut half his hair off with blunt-tipped scissors when he was three, so that they could be ponies.

On the dance floor, Harry kisses Niall on the cheek and heads in the direction of the loo. Niall doesn’t follow, at least, so they won’t get the boot just yet - he’s coming back to the table, Louis in tow. “Anything you’re after?” Niall asks, waving towards the bar.

“No more shots, I think,” Zayn says, raising his eyebrows.

Louis makes a face. “Whatever you say, dear.” He leans in and licks the side of Zayn’s face, quick as a cat, following Niall so fast that Zayn can’t even respond.

Liam’s dancing by himself, now, completely unembarrassed, sneaking glances towards the bar. He spins and drops into a half-split - how does he even know how to do that? Following Liam’s line of sight to where Janet’s sitting, leaned back and openly laughing, his ridiculous dancing makes sense. For a shining moment, everything is possibly right with the world. And he should know better than to even think it, because Janet’s face changes, mid-laugh. Getting to her feet, she looks suddenly, blindingly pissed off -

Liam’s not alone on the dance floor anymore. A large bloke has joined him, who’s moved in too close. Liam is shifting away, clearly uncomfortable. He takes another step back, smiling politely, but the man lurches forward, reaching out again to put his hand on Liam’s shoulder. Zayn can see when Liam’s smile turns strained, when he starts to gather himself and look around. Anger floods through him, sharp alizarin crimson, and he’s off his stool and on the tiny dance floor before he knows it.

“How about you get your fucking hands off my friend,” Zayn says, pushing the man’s hand off Liam’s shoulder.

“How about you mind your own business.” He’s big and reeks of booze, Zayn smells it on him as he takes a step closer, red face twisted with anger and embarrassment. It’s not a good combination in a large drunk person, but the wild anger snapping through him doesn’t give a shit. “What’re you going to do about it, anyway?”

“What I need to, I guess,” Zayn says, edging himself forward, “to get you to fuck off back where you belong.”

Cold sweeps down one side of him, and heat sweeps up the other. He doesn’t have to look to know that Louis and Niall have arrived, it roars in his ears. On his left, Liam straightens, putting them shoulder to shoulder.

“Hello,” Niall says, from Liam’s other side, sounding both strained and pleasant. “Is there a problem?”

“No problem. Just this nosey arsehole,” Red Face stabs his finger toward Zayn, “interrupting a chat. Being neighborly, is all, and your friend can’t take a compliment.”

“Sounds like my friend doesn’t want it,” Louis says. He slides his fingers around Zayn’s wrist, like he’s not sure who to be most worried about.

Undeterred, Red Face steps forward again; close enough, now, to shove or punch. “What are you trying to say?” he slurs. “Think your friend can talk for himself, if he’s not interested.”

“I’m not interested, actually,” Liam says. “Since you’re asking this time.”

“Well fuck you,” he jeers, shifting his weight forward. He’s just starting to lift a hand and Zayn’s ready for it, yanking his wrist out of Louis’ grasp -

And then Harry’s back from the jacks. They wrap their arm around Liam’s shoulders from behind, wedging their head in between Liam and Zayn’s. It runs right up Zayn’s back, that almost invincible feeling like everything slots into place. “He still wets the bed,” they say, loudly and definitively.

That’s Zayn’s cue. Louis knows what he’s going for; he reaches out for Zayn’s wrist, again. A whole glacier forms at the top of Zayn’s spine, melting slowly while he pulls in energy.

“What kind of freak are you?” Red Face spits out, eyeballing Harry.

And then Zayn smashes him with **I need to piss** \- it whooshes out of him, strong and focused. Liam’s steady presence on his left reminds him to concentrate, keep the whole bar from wetting themselves. That would be a news piece that would never see the light of day, at least.

Stumbling back, Red Face stares down at the front of his pants and the growing wet spot there, mouth flapping open and shut.

“Think you’d better fuck off, mate,” Janet says, materializing behind him with the bouncer in tow. She glances at the puddle on the bar floor, raising her eyebrows. He slaps his hands over the front of his trousers and leaves in a hurry. Like a collective exhale, the tension evaporates; Zayn sags suddenly, and Louis moves in to support him.

“That was a timely wee,” Janet says, slowly. “What -” she surveys the batch of them, still lined up together, braced against the curious stares of the small group that’s formed. “Never mind. Barry,” she says, turning towards the bouncer, “best get someone to clean this up.” She walks back to her table, stopping once to look over her shoulder.

They huddle back at the table, silent for a stretch. Niall grabs an untouched pint and drinks half of it in one go. Zayn’s stomach is wobbly but settling fast, he feels surprisingly good.

“Well,” Liam says, throwing an arm around Zayn and Harry. “My heroes. You didn’t have to do that, though, although I appreciate it. Proper fearless, straight out of a comic book, it was, like -”

“Excuse me,” Louis interrupts. “Sorry, Liam. Can we talk about how hot my boyfriend was just now?”

“We’ve seen it before,” Niall says, shrugging. “Has he ever told you the story about when we met?”

Zayn drops his face into his hands, wishing suddenly that he’d signed on for more shots.

“Yes?” Louis says, curiosity written in the lift of his voice.

“Partly,” Zayn says, through his hands. “Mostly.” Louis slips his fingers under the hem of his jumper, scratching some delicious pattern into the sensitive skin at his lower back.

“It was a dark and stormy night,” Harry starts, “in an otherwise peaceful summer. Placid, even, some would say. And out of the evening walked a mysterious stranger -”

“Later.” Louis grabs Zayn’s hand, pulling him away from the table. “Come with me. I just need to show you something.” He starts walking Zayn towards the loo, dragging him a little in his hurry.

“Bet it’s his knob,” Harry says, sagely.

“It’s called a bedroom,” Niall offers.

Louis turns around sharply, beelining back to the table. Niall ducks behind Haz.

“Right,” Louis says, grabbing their jackets and changing course to push Zayn towards the door, instead. “Brilliant. Have an excellent weekend.”

“See you later, I guess,” Zayn tosses over his shoulder. Louis is shoving at him, hands hot on his back again below his jumper.

“Have a good night,” Liam shouts. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t -”

Outside the pub the pavement’s empty, like everyone’s been gusted away. His breath shoots out, white in the crisp air, as he shoves his arms into his jacket. Louis pulls him next door, into the protection of the salon’s recessed doorway. The wind dies away inside the dark alcove.

“What,” Zayn starts.

Louis pulls him in and crushes their mouths together, weaving his fingers into Zayn’s hair, tugging on it sharply. He braces a hand against the cold glass of the door, running his free hand down Louis’ side. It’s unusually desperate, the way Louis opens his mouth, dragging their lips together again and again.

“Want to go home?” he asks, tearing his mouth away for a second. “Be better.” All the leftover adrenaline pinging through his blood is transforming into something else; he gets it, Louis’ sudden urgency.

“It’s just,” Louis says, pulling Zayn’s mouth down again, stroking Zayn’s tongue with his own in rhythm that he knows well, rolling his hips against Zayn’s in the same tempo; bringing them together more firmly. “Zee,” he breathes. “I need -”

It’s awkward with so many layers of clothes between them, but Zayn does his best, slipping his hand inside Louis’s sweatshirt to touch his bare skin. Louis whimpers and rubs up against him, hard and insistent. He knows that sound, just like he knows the death grip Louis’ got on his hair.

“All right?” Zayn asks. “Are you sure you want to...like, here?”

Louis nods against his shoulder. “I do want,” he cuts off, groaning and sliding Zayn’s hand down to the bulge in his trousers. “Do you?” Zayn squeezes him in reply, and Louis bucks up into his grasp. It’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen. “Do you know what you looked like?” he mutters into Zayn’s shoulder, pushing his hips up helplessly into Zayn’s hand.

“Do you know what you look like now?” Zayn asks, tipping Louis’ head back to look fully at him. “You’re so -”

Louis thrusts against him harder, breath panting in and out, and surges forward to kiss him sloppily, getting taut in Zayn’s hands before shaking apart.

“Jesus,” Zayn rasps. Louis’ got his face buried in Zayn neck, hands still wound tight in his hair.

“Take the wheel,” Louis says, lifting his face out of Zayn’s neck. “Are you…”

“I’m all right,” Zayn murmurs, drawing him back for one more kiss. “Can wait until we get home at least. Can you make it?”

“Give me a mo. Or three,” he muffles his laugh against Zayn’s chest. “This is going to be such mess.”

**~~~**

The wind stings his hands and face when he exits the train station, climbing up the nineteen stops on the way back from the publisher like a dinosaur’s spine. Hand-off of the bats and bees is complete, but he’s not out of art, yet - there’s a few pieces left, little burning coals in his portfolio.

The studio’s lit up in the late afternoon dusk. Now that all the leaves are down, he can see the lights from a distance. Liam’s at the front desk, staring at his phone with a smile on his face; Emily’s off visiting family before the main crush of exam season begins.

“Hey,” he smiles, color rising in his cheeks, and puts the phone down. “Didn’t think you were in today.”

“I’m not,” Zayn hefts the portfolio. “Just came to drop this off. Where’s Nialler?”

“He’s upstairs with Harry,” Liam says. Zayn’s eyebrows shoot up. “Not like that, get a hold of yourself. Harry’s not…” he frowns. “Not having a good day, I guess you could say.”

The studio door is open, so he doesn’t think anything about walking in. He’s about to announce himself when he sees them, and his mouth snaps shut. It’s a scene - harmless but so private that he almost turns around and heads out. He would, even, if Niall hadn’t asked him to stop by.

Niall and Harry are sprawled on the sofa in the otherwise empty studio. Niall’s sitting propped in the corner, Harry laid back against him. Harry looks rough: eyes closed, blotchy and exhausted. Niall is glowing softly gold - that’s new - and singing to them, in a voice so low and quiet that Zayn can barely hear. Still singing, Niall brushes the hair off Harry’s forehead. They sigh and snuggle more fully into him, a little color coming back into their face. He moves to leave, but Niall catches his eye, finally; the moment stretches out between them like spun glass. Reaching out, Zayn sends him a strand of _Can I help?_ He might be useless in this situation, but he’s gotten better at this at least. Niall presses his lips together and shakes his head, holding up his hand for a few more minutes.

Liam’s waiting for him downstairs. “Come smoke with me,” he says, shooting up out of his chair and shrugging into his jacket.

They smoke quietly for a minute, out on the front steps. A rare sunset for mid-November spills over the sky. It’s beautiful, but worry for Harry sits heavy on him.

“Do you know what’s going on?” Zayn asks, exhaling.

“I don’t, exactly,” Liam says, carefully. Sometimes Zayn forgets how protective he is of Harry and Niall, how the three of them have known each other since Uni. “Think it’s to do with work, again. I didn’t really have a chance to talk to them before.”

“Do you think…” he trails off. Liam turns to look at him, waiting. “Dunno, if there’s anything we can do, like. I know it’s not as simple as a bar fight, but. I hate this.”

“We’ll just have to wait and see, won’t we?” Liam says. “When Harry’s ready to talk about it, I mean.”

He doubts Niall and Harry will want to talk any time soon, let alone look at the album art. And it’s early enough, Louis will be leaving rehearsal any minute - they could have an actual night together if he leaves now. The decision isn’t hard. He taps out a text to Louis: _Night off, come to mine?_ hoping he sees it before he gets home.

“Have Niall or Harry ring me, yeah?” Zayn says, stepping on his cigarette butt. “I’m heading home.”

“Cheers,” Liam pulls him in for a brief hug and turns to open the studio doors, letting the warm air out.

He’s halfway home when Louis texts back. **GOD YES** and then, **if you’re cooking**

The typing bubble hovers on his screen for a long time. Stood in the middle of the pavement, Zayn waits for what feels like ages, but nothing else shows up.

 _What?_ he finally replies. His hands are getting cold, clutching his phone like a teenager in the darkening day.

**Why is there no blowjob emoji**

_Idiot. See u soon_

He’s just testing the potatoes with a fork when Louis arrives, banging into the room like a bad spell. Then Louis’ long arms surround him, smelling of leaves and smoke and fresh cold air. Zayn smiles at him over his shoulder. He looks tired but happy; satisfied, like a dog that snuck out to play.

“How was rehearsal?” he asks. The potatoes need another minute, maybe two.

“Good, actually,” Louis says, squeezing him again. “It’s really coming together, you should come by again. Oh my god, are you doing bangers and actual mash?” He closes his eyes and inhales deeply, leaving his arms curled around Zayn. “This is a gift from past-life Louis. Past-life Louis did something really good - “

“Yeah? What did past-life Louis do?” Zayn asks, flicking off the burner.

“It was the year 257 AD. Past-life Louis was crossing a muddy street - did they have streets then? Never mind, it doesn’t matter. Trapped in the mud of the muddy street, they found a tiny kitten, mewling and cold. And muddy.”

“Poor kitten,” Zayn says, turning in Louis’ arms. Nose to nose, Louis’ eye smiles back at him **.**

“No need to worry. Past-life Louis scooped the kitten out of the mud and carried it home in their shirt. Or dress. Or whatever they were wearing that day,” he tilts his face in, brushing their mouths together, soft and slow. “Just so I could have you, cooking me bangers and mash on a Tuesday night.” He pulls back, and the moment breaks. “Why are you home so early, anyway? Weren’t you going to meet with Niall and Harry about those pieces?”

“I’ll tell you while we eat. It’ll be a little bit before this is done. Why don’t you lay down for a few minutes?” He turns back to the stove, moving the pan of hot liquid over to the sink. The steam makes a little chimney as he drains the water off.

“Don’t get to proper see you during the week. Not sure I fancy a kip when I could be ogling you, instead.”

“Picked up a copy of Spider-Man Blue when I was by the office today,” Zayn offers. “It’s just on the table there.”

“Sick,” Louis says. He drops a kiss on the side of Zayn’s neck on his way out to the sitting area. “I’m happy to see you too, you know.”

Heat creeps into his face; he doesn’t even notice sometimes, now, what he’s forgetting to lock down. Portrait of the artist: flummoxed, laid bare. The whole flat could be lit up with his emotions like fairy lights, and he’d be stood over the stove, oblivious.

Soon enough, the meal is ready. Louis groans and closes his eyes at the first bite, and Zayn almost chokes on the stupid fondness that rises in him - more than fondness, really, it’s about to tip over into something bigger than what he can put a name to. Easy quietness bounces between them as they eat, emotional revelations aside.

“Thanks for this,” Louis says, over his empty plate. “Much better than what I would have come up with.”

Zayn kicks him gently under the table. Louis cooks well enough, the few dishes that he makes. “Could do this every night, yeah?”

“You know I would,” Louis says, kicking him back. “Those pictures Doniya sent of the party were pretty incredible.”

“Doniya didn’t send me any pictures,” Zayn says, sourly.

Louis is smug, laughing at him from across the table. “That’s what you get, for ghosting on her texts all the time.” He relents, scooting his chair over to show Zayn the pictures. “What happened at the studio today?”

Flipping through the photos, it’s easy to tell Louis everything - his growing worry for Harry, the overall unease that’s inching over him. In the small peace they’ve built for themselves, putting words to it is a relief.

Louis frowns. “I don’t like that. Did Niall ever ring, then?”

“No,” Zayn says. “I’m just trying to give them both some space until they want to talk.”

“You’re worried, though.”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees, gathering the plates off the table. “You washing or drying?”

Louis grabs the pots off the stove, stacking them with the pile of dishes accumulating near the sink. “Just leave it, it can wait for one night.” Pushing Zayn back up against the counter, he leans in for a kiss, the kind that sings all the way through his body.

“You say that every night,” he mutters back, into the razor of space between them. It amazes him sometimes, how he can he need someone so much without requiring them - how being with Louis doesn’t mean he has to sacrifice himself. It’s hitting him hard tonight; he just has to breathe through it.

Louis drags his lips over Zayn’s, slow and slick like they haven’t for a while. Louis’ hair has grown out just enough to wind his hands in it, so he does; Louis sighs against his mouth, settling more firmly against him. He’s just starting to get handsy when Zayn’s phone goes off.

“You should get it,” Louis says, trailing his lips down Zayn’s neck.

“You should shut up,” Zayn says, digging his phone out of his pocket to answer the call. Louis scrapes his fingernails up Zayn’s back in retaliation.

“Why are you breathing so hard?” Niall’s tinny voice bursts from the phone.

“Why are you cock blocking me?” Louis asks in return, grabbing the phone and putting it on speaker. Harry’s slow laugh blooms in the background, a sound Zayn’s glad to hear.

Then Harry’s on the line. “Can you come over, please. We want to talk to you about something, like. Just Nialler and I. And you, of course. Wouldn’t want to do it without you.” Their voice gets muffled for a second, it sounds like they’re trying to keep the phone. “Niall wants me to tell you that it’s not about polyamory. If you were thinking that it was, which - why on earth would they be thinking about polyamory, Niall? Is there something you’d like to discuss with me?”

“Jesus.” Niall’s got the phone back. “Just come over, if you can.” Louis is shaking his head emphatically.

“Bring the art?” Zayn asks, ignoring him.

“Bring the art,” Niall says.

“And Louis,” Harry adds. “Don’t forget to bring the Louis.”

“I _am_ the art,” Louis protests. “Can’t believe I’m getting thrown over for this.”

Niall and Harry’s flat is two stops down the line, so they get there quickly enough. Harry answers the door, looking much better than before; Zayn is immediately subsumed in their hug. “Sorry for earlier,” they say, into Zayn’s ear. It’s been a while since he’s gotten a Harry hug, he forgot how encompassing they are.

Zayn kisses them on the cheek. “Doesn’t matter, does it? Just glad you’re all right.”

“Getting there, anyway,” Harry says.

The flat’s more settled than when he was there last; still half-empty, but most of the boxes have been unpacked. The things he remembers from their individual places have commingled in a happy chaos of art and books and mismatched lamps. They follow Harry to the sitting room, which is mostly filled with a gigantic sofa. Guitars line the walls, and they’ve pushed together two vintage amp boxes for a coffee table. A football game is on, volume muted. Niall walks in, hands full of glass bottles.

“Thanks for coming,” he hands the beer around and perches himself on the arm of the sofa. Harry plops down next to him.

“It was no problem,” Louis says. Zayn rolls his eyes; it was a massive problem, except that it wasn’t, really. Louis takes the far end of the couch, leaving Zayn to sit in the middle, between him and Harry.

He lifts the portfolio into his lap. In the gentle light, the nylon cover is black and fathomless, like it could open into an entirely different dimension. He’s nervous, suddenly, to open it: this dimension suits him perfectly, thanks. The sound of the zipper is loud in the quiet room. He’s designed two pieces for their album cover, and he loves them both. He draws the first one out, heart in his mouth - it’s no different than playing a song he’s written for the first time, a tiny piece of himself he’s prepared for someone else.

The first one is a typeface he designed, deliberately 1970’s California; it repeats itself over and over in yellows and oranges on a black background, until the space runs out.

“This is incredible, Zayn,” Harry says, tracing the letters with a finger. “I can’t believe you made this for us.”

Niall’s pink and silent, peering over Harry’s shoulder; he looks like someone just asked him to the prom. “I love it.”

“Me, too,” Zayn says. “Reminded me of you two, how the letters form out of each other - the lines and hollow spaces, yeah? But when you stare at it for a minute -”

“It’s almost like it says something else. Wicked.” Harry looks over their shoulder at Niall, and they share a smile.

“Show them the flowers, Zee,” Louis murmurs, leaned back into the corner of the sofa.

The next piece is flowers. Looking at it now takes him back all those months ago, to when he first met Louis; when they were strangers, hunched over a coffee table while Zayn scribbled on a napkin. These flowers are different, done in ink and oils and watercolor, in the style of a tattoo. Getting the colors right was a bitch, but it was worth it in the end. A single stalk of lupin splits the 20x20 square, each tiny blossom pearl-shaped and distinct. Dioxazine purple at the bottom, in its deepest shade of almost-black, the color gradually lightening to true purple and then white. Sunlight shimmers through the palest blooms at the top, dripping golden off the petals there; its abstract yellow rays fan out around the top of the flower.

“Can I?” Harry asks. Zayn surrenders the painting into their hands. They stare at it for a long time, Niall’s chin hooked over their shoulder. “Reminds me of when we met,” Harry says, finally, tracing a sunray with their fingertip.

“Where did we meet, anyway?” Niall smiles slightly. He lifts his eyes away from the painting to look at Zayn; it could tell a whole story, that look: gratitude, pride.

“Was a long time ago. This is perfect. I can’t...thank you.” Harry says, eyes a little shiny in the lamp's curious light. They hand the painting back to Zayn. “If you’ll just excuse me for one moment.” They twist on the couch, knocking Niall off-balance; his eyebrows fly up as Harry catches him, pulling him into a kiss.

“Excuse _me_ ,” Louis says, sharply. “Didn’t stop snogging Zayn to come over here and watch you two go at it.”

The doorbell’s brief buzz interrupts whatever argument would have started. “That’d be Liam, then,” Niall says.

Zayn didn’t need him to say it to know, it walks across his skin on soft cat paws. The man himself pokes his head around the sitting room doorway, looking sheepish. “Sorry if I’m late, had to wait for the sitter. She charges me an arm and a leg, too, so I can’t stay long.” He squeezes himself onto the sofa between Harry and Zayn. “This is nice and cozy, I quite like it.”

Harry leans over, pulling at the neck of Liam’s jumper. “I call bullshit, Liam. Is that a love bite I see? Looks pretty fresh, in my professional opinion.”

Liam knocks their hand away, beginning to turn scarlet. “I swear to god, Harry -”

“Glad we were all on the path to getting lucky tonight,” Niall interrupts. “How about we get this over with, so our plans can resume?”

“Aye, aye,” Louis assents. “We’ve got nothing but time later to talk about what an absolute and complete slag Liam is.”

“Might call a separate meeting for that,” Zayn agrees.

“I’ll book it.” Niall nudges Harry. “Do you want to start?”

Harry takes a deep breath and sits up straight. “I want to tell you about something. See if it’s just me or if you think it’s something. Niall, here, does think it is but I’m not sure yet, you know?”

“We don’t know, actually,” Liam says. “Which is why we’re here.” Harry rolls their eyes, but Liam has a point.

“Things have been changing at work. They brought on a new partner, who’s been assigned to the financial audit team. And... something’s not right. His name’s Bernard, first off, which is a massive tip off -”

“Harry.” Niall says, squeezing their shoulder.

Harry takes another big breath. “Right. Well. I think he knows. About me, I mean. About -” they wiggle their fingers in the air, _the extra_ is implied.

“All right,” Zayn says. “Why do you think that?”

“It’s been miserable, there, this last month. But um, he assigned me to a new client, a pharmaceutical company. And I’ve been auditing their fixed asset depreciation schedules. They’re using an older model that I’m not as familiar with, which makes no sense given they’re a sort of cutting-edge, very well-capitalized -”

Behind Harry, Niall is trying unsuccessfully to hide a smile in his shirt collar. “Harry, no one wants to know about International Financial Reporting Standards.”

“Right,” Harry says. “Although it’s interesting, actually, the best part. But anyway, Bernard’s been asking me questions. Pulled me in yesterday and asked me what I’ve found so far.” Harry stops and gives them a significant look.

“And?” Liam prompts, poking them in the stomach.

Harry swats at his hand. “Well, I told him what I’d found, Liam. They have solid internal control procedures with minimal risk of fraud; financially exceptional performance on operating expenses, return on assets is strong, some risk in a patent that will be expiring next year on a key formulary -”

Louis buries his face in Zayn’s shoulder, laughing and yawning at the same time, a weird creaky chirp. Anyone giving Harry free reign over storytelling deserves what they get, to be fair, but at this rate they’ll be here all night.

“Anyway,” Harry leans forward, drawing everyone’s attention back. “So, he asks again, but stares at me, right, very creepily. ‘I meant _,_ _what have you found out?_ ’ And it’s the way he asks, really.”

“Tell them the other thing.” Niall says, rubbing his hand up and down their back.

Harry’s mouth turns down at the corners. “Not every day. But if I have to meet with him - in person, generally. Afterwards. Everything is bad. Not like that - not me. But this,” they tap their forehead. “Everything I get, all of the incoming traffic is...tainted, almost. Kids dropping ice cream cones, dogs getting beaten. People suffering.”

“Holy shit,” Louis says. “That sounds terrible.”

“And It’s not just me,” Harry adds, glancing at Niall. “He’s asked about Niall, as well. Today we had a meeting for the annual charity gala, attendance mandatory, and he asked me specifically if Niall was going to come. By name. Said he was excited to meet him. He shouldn’t know Niall’s name.”

They’re all silent for a while. Louis’ got the same lost look that Zayn’s sure is on his own face. How do they tackle this kind of problem, if it is a problem, when their skills amount to mostly stupid parlour tricks?

“Wait,” Liam interrupts, looking around at the group. “Is this a superhero meeting? And you’ve invited me? Even though I don’t have...?” He waves his hand around, looking touched.

“Don’t be dumb, Liam,” Harry says.

“Of course you do,” Zayn says, at the same time.

Sat in the middle, Liam swivels his head between him and Harry, speechless for once. The sharp edge of Louis’ elbow in his side reminds Zayn that they haven’t really discussed this. On Harry’s other side, Niall’s flapping his mouth open and shut like a fish - so odds are good he and Harry haven’t talked about it, either.

Liam gathers himself, finally. “I do? Then why haven’t I ever...you know, done something? You’d think I’d know by now, if there was anything else in here.”

“I know, because I don’t know,” Harry shrugs, spinning the ring on their thumb.

“Well that’s helpful, Harry,” Louis chimes in.

“What I meant to say, before someone interrupted me - very rudely, if I could say that - is that Liam’s the only person I’ve met that I’ve never known anything about,” Harry says.

“You know loads about me, Harry. More than almost anyone,” Liam says.

“I do. Too much, maybe. But everything I know, I’ve learned the normal way. I’ve not - I’ve never had something just pop in. Not about you, anyway. So that has to mean something, I think.”

“Plus, there’s this,” Zayn adds. Everyone shifts to look at him. He closes his eyes and lets it go, that feeling he gets - like being rocked in a hammock under the quiet rustle of trees, like he’s exactly where he needs to be and everything is perfect - lets it cover the sofa and all of them until they’re cocooned in it. “Happens every time we’re all together, mate. But it didn’t start tonight until you walked into the room. Takes all of us, like.” He opens his eyes. Almost everyone’s got a dreamy look, relaxed back into the couch or their respective partners - except for Liam.

He frowns slightly, eyebrows drawn. “I didn’t get that, I’m afraid - whatever it was. Seems nice, though. Like I would have liked it.” He shrugs. “Anyway. It’ll come when it comes, I expect. Can’t force these types of things, I’m sure.”

Niall leans across Harry to pat Liam on the cheek. “Either way, we’d want you here. You know that.” He claps his hands, and it’s back to business. “So. To summarize. There are three main concerns: One, what knowledge does Bernard expect Harry to gain from their client and why? Two, how does he know about me and why does he want to meet me? Three, does he _know_ about us and, if he does, what does he intend to do with that knowledge?”

“I’m no maths genius, but that sounded more like five concerns, if I counted right,” Liam says.

“One for each of us, then. Sounds like we may need to investigate, lads,” Louis says, trying hard to mute the excitement sparking through his voice.

It’s Zayn’s turn to elbow him, this time.

“Oh, right. Sorry. Lads - and Liam,” he nods. “Stop elbowing me, Zayn, Harry and I have agreed that lads is acceptable when used as a general term -” he grunts as the weight of Harry’s feet hit him full on in the stomach.

They’ve stretched out along the sofa, head pillowed in Niall’s lap, arms and legs everywhere. “I love you all very much,” Harry says, smiling up at the ceiling. “Even badly lying Liam.”

Liam gives a heave, toppling Harry onto the floor. “On that note,” he says, standing and stepping carefully over them. “I’m heading home.”

“Can’t keep Janet waiting,” Zayn agrees, seriously. “Or she’ll never babysit for you again.”

~~~

“So, what’s the plan for tonight?” Louis asks, adjusting Zayn’s tie. They’re both in black; Louis looks incredible.

“We don’t go. We stay home, instead, I peel you out of the suit. Or better yet, just undo the zip and blow -”

“Hold that thought,” Louis says, sliding his hand over Zayn’s mouth. “The night is young.”

It’s a few stops down the line to get to the gala’s venue in Acton Town, but the ride seems interminable. Anxiety crawls over him, a hundred snagging, tiny claws; he pushes it down, keeps it coiled tight. Louis doesn’t need any more fuel for his own nerves.

The venue’s a few blocks off the station. They’re both quiet, in their finery; what a story it could tell, the two of them walking in the early winter night, dark heads bent together. And they’ve been doing this for months, taking their night strolls - but this one’s got nothing going for it. Too soon, the squat brick building looms before them, the time for turning back dissolving with each step forward.

Louis’ hold on his hand tightens as he slows to a stop. “Hey,” he murmurs, swiping his thumb over the back of Zayn’s hand. “We’ll be all right. It’s just a thing we need to get through, yeah?”

“Yeah,” he agrees. He pulls Louis closer; face to face, it’s easier to hold back the dread bubbling through him. Louis looks pulled tight, an elastic band ready to snap. His lips are cold against Zayn’s when he leans in, but he parts them with a sigh, and whatever magic that brought them together - holds them together - snaps into place, clearing out a corner of Zayn’s mind like a good wind. He draws back, reluctantly. No one’s stopped to stare at them, at least.

Louis opens his eyes and sighs again. “You had a good idea, earlier,” he says, swiping his thumb over Zayn’s lower lip.

“Last chance. Let’s just go home right now, no one will ever know.”

“That’s no way to be a superhero. Come on then, let’s get it over with.” Louis links their hands together again, and they go.

The staircase is deceptively steep for such a short building; it feels like they climb for ages. In front of them, a woman’s dress glints in the low light - she’s got just a wrap on, the stupid price of vanity on this cold night. He stops when they reach the top. His feet won’t carry him farther. Eyes closed, he takes a breath. The air tastes like winter. It almost never snows in London, and he misses it fiercely all of a sudden: the quiet it brings down on the world, the way it makes the pavement sparkle like that woman’s fancy dress.

Louis tugging on his hand brings him back into the here and now. The door’s glass mouth yawns before them, the stairway plummets behind; moving forward is like stepping into the throat of an unknowable creature.

“Come on, then,” Louis says. “No way out but through. Plus, there might be sausage rolls.”

“Always the big picture with you,” Zayn says, and steps inside.

The brightness of the coat room is blinding, but at least they’re alone as they get their coats settled. Louis reaches for him, smoothing down the collar of his suit jacket, gone wonky on the trip over.

“Let’s try to find the others, yeah?” Zayn says.

The ballroom is a press of people and perfume, a chaotic churn of sequins and small talk. A live string quartet is set up on a small stage at the near end of the room; the far end is entirely dedicated to food. Louis gives a low whistle, looking around at the fake-tanned elite, sporting stiff hair and cramped smiles, and different versions of the same ties and earrings. It would be funny - it _is_ funny, actually, it’s just the one feeling he can’t call up right now.

“Care for a round of handbag bingo?” Louis asks, craning his neck.

“Left my game card at home, though. Could do I Spy?”

“Good call, good call. I’ll start. I spy with my little eye...an open bar.” He nods towards the bar. “I’m going in. Would you like something?”

“I can’t. I don’t...It’s Persephone, like.” Louis stares at him. “Just don’t want to get trapped here, is all. Be careful what you eat and that.”

“So you’re OK if I get trapped, then?”

“Well, I’d just have to stage a dramatic rescue,” Zayn pulls him in by the lapels for a quick kiss; it’s hard to let him go. “Which is one of your life goals, let’s not forget.”

Louis winks at him. “Stay put. I don’t want to lose you in the revelry.”

It’s ridiculous, but his stomach sinks as he watches Louis walk away - as if he’ll be eaten up in public, in plain sight of five hundred people, by some unknown beast lurking under the Italian tile.

“Is that Zayn?” he hears from behind him; he turns to find himself face to face with Amy and Rich from Bloomsbury Publishing. “It _is_ you,” Amy says. Her lilac perfume swishes around him as she kisses the air by his cheeks. She’s lovely, objectively, in a simple cocktail dress. Standing behind her, Rich is slightly less expressionless than usual, which is saying a lot - for Creative Director, he’s one of the most effortlessly stoic people Zayn knows.

“The other lucky company representatives,” Zayn says. “Here to monitor my mingling? Are there quotas? Productivity measures? Will the return on mingling investment be tracked for reporting purposes?”

“Leave off,” she says, laughing. “This is not a work event, I am not acting in a supervisory capacity. Still surprised you wanted the invite, by the way. Not exactly your bag, is it?” Zayn shrugs; it’s true, no point in contesting it.

“I’m going up for a drink,” Rich says. “Would either of you care for something?”

“Whatever looks good,” Amy laughs. “These tickets weren’t cheap, may as well get our money’s worth.”

He watches Rich walk away. The refreshment tables are tightly packed; he can’t make out Louis in the crowd. They should’ve gone for the purple suits, after all. Amy touches his arm, bringing his attention back.

“Earth to Zayn. How’s your evening going so far?”

“We’ve just gotten here, actually. And I’ve already lost Louis, so...” he smiles, but it comes out twisted.

“And now you’ve found me,” Louis says, coolly, reappearing with a glass in hand.

Relief beats through him, many-winged. “Louis, this is Amy, my project lead.”

“And I’m Louis, but you must know that already,” he sounds pleasant enough - but it’s for show, Zayn can hear irritation creeping through his voice. “Should we try to find Niall and Harry, then?” Louis asks.

“Let’s make a round, yeah.” He nods to Amy. “Have a nice night. Maybe we’ll see you later.”

“Cheers,” she says, waving her hand in mock salute.

Whatever’s up with Louis, they both drop it as they look for their friends; now’s not the time to deal with it. They find Niall and Harry huddled up front, not far from the quartet. Harry’s tall and striking in flowing wide-legged trousers and a ruffled shirt; the shadows lick up the sharp lines of their face, offset by their soft curls.

“Oi, oi,” Louis says, moving up to put his arm around Niall. Niall’s wearing what Zayn knows is one of his three suits - Paul Smith, probably - but underneath the jacket he’s got on a t-shirt with “ _I’m with them_ ,” handwritten in what looks like permanent marker, complete with a wobbly arrow pointing to his right.

“Cool top. Could’ve had me do that for you,” Zayn says, reaching out to trace the arrow. Niall smiles tightly.

“I like it like this. Bit challenging to stay on his right side all of the time, though,” Harry says.

“This dick, fuck him.” For half a second, the heat snaps off of Niall, a boiling surge in the air - even Harry takes a step back. “Sorry,” Niall says, squeezing his eyes shut. The temperature drops.

“So what’s the plan?” Louis asks.

Harry shrugs. “Dunno, really. Maybe just mingle, see if he finds a way to come and meet you.”

“Right. We want to know what he’s after, if he knows who you are,” Niall says.

“All right,” Zayn nods. He reaches out, but Louis’ hand is already there, fingers twining hard through his. “Come on, Barbie, let’s go party.”

They make their rounds for a while, working through the sea of unknown people. “I wish Liam were here,” Louis mutters. “Doesn’t feel right without him.”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, surprised.

The familiar sound of a microphone squealing into life cuts through the noise; the string quartet stops playing, and it’s suddenly, oddly quiet in the hall. There’s a _tap tap tap_ on the microphone’s windscreen.

“Testing,” a man’s voice rings out, rich and amused; the sound of it makes the skin crawl on the back of Zayn’s neck.

“Over there,” Louis says, nudging him. On the small platform where the quartet was playing, there’s a man standing, microphone in hand; he’s light haired and middling height, but it’s hard to make out more detail from this far away. He doesn’t need to be closer to know that it’s him.

“Hello and thank you for joining us for our tenth annual charity gala.” Bernard keeps talking but it’s static in Zayn’s ears, a crackling buzz that makes his teeth ache. He hears something about how much money the gala has raised since its inception, the charitable works accomplished with the generous donations. His stomach winds itself tighter and tighter, corkscrewing up into his chest. And then he’s got to go, he can’t stand there for another minute.

He elbows Louis, drawing his attention. “Going to the loo,” he says. Louis nods, half-listening.

It’s quiet in the loo, which is blissfully empty. The closed door helps to insulate him from whatever’s going on out there, even an increment of protection is a good thing. The tap water is bracing and cold against his face. He’d stay there all night - gripping the cool marble countertop, watching its endless swirling pattern - if he could. But Louis is still out there, and even if he can’t feel it like Zayn does, there’s no way he’s leaving him on his own.

And maybe it is affecting him, because Louis’ waiting just outside when he emerges, face set in that stubborn cast that Zayn knows well even if his eyes are gentle, running over Zayn, making sure he’s OK. He’s not. But Bernard’s finished his speech, and the air is easier to breathe, at least: small victories.

“All right?” Louis asks, holding out his hand.

“No.”

We have to,” Louis’ grip is warm and steady. It’s not everything, but it’s enough for right now.

“I know,” Zayn says. “It’s just fucking me up. Are you ok?”

“Think so. I can tell something’s off, but it doesn’t...impact me the way it does you.”

He takes a breath, steeling himself. “Let’s rip the plaster off, then.”

An unmistakable head of dull blonde hair is chatting back by where they left Harry and Niall, and Zayn’s not ready for it – the buzzing in his ears is all his own, this time, as Louis tows him steadily, inexorably over.

“Will it be a giveaway, seeing us all together?”

Louis squeezes his hand. “No help for it now.”

Harry’s pale but composed when they get there; Niall is radiating heat like a tropical island. Zayn looks at him pointedly, but he just shrugs: _the jig is up._

It’s dumb to be surprised by how ordinary Bernard seems: slight paunch, receding hairline, a smattering of burst blood vessels across the bridge of his nose. He raises his eyebrows expectantly when Zayn and Louis join the group.

“Here’s another client,” Harry starts the introductions, managing a smile.

“Hello,” Zayn says, wrapped up so tightly in himself he’ll surely have a headache for days.

“Ah, Zayn from Bloomsbury. I’ve known Chuck and Dan for ages, of course - and Amy’s told me so much about your talent.”

Zayn’s arm is impossibly long, as he reaches out to shake Bernard’s hand. The static is back; he has to beat it down so he can even hear. It should be rattling his bones, it should be shaking his teeth - he’s amazed to see his hand is steady, and no one else seems to notice. Louis looks relieved, in a controlled way. Maybe he thought Zayn was going to have a nervous breakdown. Maybe he still will, just not right now.

“And this is?” Bernard smiles at Louis, who introduces himself. He doesn’t offer his hand, and Bernard’s left with his own hand partly raised. It flops back down to his side uselessly, and Zayn fights to keep the grin off his face. “Well. It’s lovely to finally meet you all. And thank you for supporting this cause, we couldn’t do it without your charitable giving. Zayn, the board would love to use your specialty sometime.”

Oh, god. If ever there were a time to play it cool, it would come when he’s the least capable of it. “You’d have to talk to Amy about that, I guess. She assigns my projects.”

“Oh, not that specialty,” he winks and looks over Zayn’s shoulder, catching someone’s eye. “Oops, there’s Donna. If you’ll excuse me, please.” He walks away, to a blonde woman with a pinched look on her face, just like all the other blonde women circling the room.

Everyone gets smaller as soon as Bernard walks away. He leans against Louis, who puts an arm around his waist.

“Jesus,” Niall says. “He’s…”

“Yeah,” Zayn agrees. His head is starting to clear.

“I know this makes no sense,” Harry says, “but I’m really hungry.”

Louis perks up. “That’s an idea. Going to need fuel if we’re going to unpack what just happened, peak brain power and all that. Do you two want anything?”

Niall looks about as interested in eating as Zayn feels, which is not at all. He waves them off. “Zayn and I will keep each other company, don’t worry on us.”

Louis walking away is tolerable this time, since Harry’s with him. Shoulder to shoulder with Niall, feeling starts to inch back into him; Niall’s warmth is gentle now, barely noticeable.

“What a night,” Niall says, sighing. It’s not the kind of thing that needs a response. Niall’s good for that.

They’re interrupted from not talking by Amy’s approach. It feels like ten years since Zayn’s seen her last. “Do you mind if I steal this one for a moment? Shop talk, I’m afraid.”

“Of course,” Niall says, as she leads Zayn a short distance away.

She seems a little nervous, looking over Zayn’s shoulder, but keeps a pleasant smile plastered on her face. “You’ve met Bernard, then.”

He nods. “I have.”

“He seemed quite taken with you. He was wondering if we would, ah,  _loan you out_ for a project for his charity.” She gives a fake tinkling laugh and takes a quick drink of her champagne.

“Would you? Loan me?” He likes working for Bloomsbury, and Amy - he doesn’t want to find a new illustration gig. Would it be worth it, working for the enemy? Could he infiltrate Bernard’s nefarious secret society from the inside? He’s lost it, completely – but knowing he’s lost it isn’t half the battle, after all.

Amy looks around again, dropping the volume of her voice. “You don’t seem excited.”

“That’s because I’m not. It’s hard to describe, like…I just don’t want to.” He gives up, shrugging. Louis’ still not back, one more fucking thing to worry over. Now that the fight’s worn off, he’s consumed with tiredness: bone-deep and utterly shattered. He doesn’t know how long he can hold onto it before he starts to fray apart, a big silly string of emotion floating into the December sky.

Amy lays her hand on his arm, continuing even more quietly. “Well, I think he’s an enormous prick. Would be good for your career, but nothing would make me happier than telling him you’re not available.”

He laughs, it feels good to relieve some of the pressure building at the base of his skull. “With professional enthusiasm, I’m sure.”

A hand on his elbow makes him almost jolt out of his skin - but it’s just Louis, who raises his eyebrows, staring at him for a second before dropping his hand.

“You’re back,” Zayn says, washed with relief. “Give us a minute?” he asks Amy.

“No worries,” she says. “I’ll see you in a few days, let me know if you change your mind.” He rolls his eyes; she grins and wrinkles her nose, and then she’s swallowed up again by the party-goers.

“Ready to get out of here?” Zayn asks.

Louis moves back a half-step, away from Zayn’s outstretched arm. “If you’re quite finished,” he snaps. “Didn’t mean to interrupt. Or I can get myself home and you can stay if you like,” he turns away, not waiting for a response.

“Louis -” but he keeps walking, back stiff, putting space between them as he beelines for the coat room. Zayn’s got no fucking energy to deal with his shit right now; all of it is focused on containment and motion - containing his dread, keeping his body moving. It’s the most distant he’s felt from Louis, and it laughs at him, sinks its fingers deep into his sternum.

“Hold up,” Zayn says when they reach the coatroom. There’s no one there to overhear them if they’re about to row, at least. Louis digs through a row of coats, flicking them angrily down the metal hanging rod, one by one. “Louis, for fuck’s sake.”

“What was that about?” Louis asks, spinning to face him. His tone is biting, and he looks like he might just - his face is mad and scared, as if he’s not sure what Zayn will do next.

“What? What are you talking about?” He’s entered an alternate universe, where Louis is really angry with him and he’s got no idea why. He gropes for a reaction but can’t find one; it’s buried underneath everything else.

“The way she was looking at you,” Louis says, back in the coats again. “You can’t have missed it, Zayn.”

“She’s _my boss_ ,” Zayn says. “I’ll tell you what she said when we’re outside, but I really need to leave, right now.”

“I need, I need,” Louis says, grabbing Zayn’s coat off the rack and shoving it at him. “What about what I need?” He’s getting louder, the coats and scarves and hats muffling the sound of his voice - it ricochet’s around Zayn’s skull like bees, instead.

With true superhero timing, Niall walks into the coatroom, Harry right behind. Zayn closes his eyes for a second, hoping that shutting out the world might make sanity descend on all of them.

“Time to leave, boys,” Niall says, crossing to stand by Louis, still hunting through the rows of jackets.

“Just give us a minute,” Louis snaps, finally finding his own coat.

“I don’t think so, no,” Harry says, frowning. Niall puts his arm around Louis’ shoulder and physically steers him towards the exit.

Outside, the air is cold and sharp, but cleaner; it scrapes the weird miasma out of Zayn’s lungs. Next to him, Harry shudders, finally seeming acutely miserable. He’s struck by an intense longing to go home and burn his clothes, burn any reminder about the evening, which is ending so differently than it began. He takes a step toward Louis, shivering on the pavement, but he puts his hands up.

“Don’t,” he says, quietly. “Just don’t.”

“What the fuck, Louis?” Zayn’s loud, and he doesn’t care. It feels good, finally, to let something out, he could cover a whole city block with it.

“Just -” Louis says, taking a step away from them, and then another. Zayn knows what’s going to happen next. “I just need to get some air, clear me head.” Shoving his hands into his pockets, he turns away.

“Louis,” Zayn calls, one more time. He’s making a scene, for the few people still going in and out of the building, but it’s hard to care. Louis just waves his hand and keeps walking in the opposite direction of the train station. Zayn feels like he got punched in the stomach and the chest, all at the same time. Niall and Harry aren’t looking much better, though they’re wound together. “What…Do you know what just happened?”

He regrets the cold now, his earlier desire for winter to settle in more strongly. Niall and Harry huddle closer, but he’s freezing; worry and anger gnaw at him, sharp and inked like teeth.

“I think...” Harry says slowly as Niall puts an arm around him, drawing him into their warmth. “It was part of that, maybe.” They nod toward the building. “I can’t be sure, but when you met Bernard - what did it feel like?”

Outside now, with a little distance and clear air between them, it’s hard to call up exactly what it was. But he remembers how it made him feel. “I almost couldn’t hear what he was saying, like. His mouth was moving but all I could hear was -” he makes a buzzing sound. Harry looks at him seriously, all earnest streetlight eyes. “And…panic. Being smothered. Jesus, Harry, you’ve been dealing with that every day?”

“It’s worse on days that I see him,” Harry says. “So not every day, no. And mine is different than yours, which is interesting, in a way, I think.”

“I didn’t get all that,” Niall chimes in, gesturing at the air between themselves and the gala hall. “What you two did. But there’s definitely something.”

“Can we get on the train now?” Zayn asks. “I just want to go home.”

“You don’t want to wait for Louis?” Niall asks, carefully expressionless.

“Doubt he’s coming back anytime soon,” Zayn says, honesty bitter on his tongue. They turn and start walking to the station. It’d be a quiet night except for the words threading through his brain, insects pinging off a streetlight. “He’s a big boy, he’ll find his own way.”

They’re quiet the rest of the walk. The farther they get from the gala, the better Zayn starts to feel, like sloughing off a skin - maybe Harry was right, and maybe Louis, wherever he is, is starting to feel better, too. And maybe Zayn will sprout wings and fly off like a snowflake into the night. It’s impossible to know what Louis is thinking right now, whatever string that normally connects them is pulled too tight to register anything.

The train’s almost empty when they board. Climbing into its familiar stale locker room smell and shitty electric yellow lights, it’s hard to believe that something ominous is out there. They settle into their seats. Niall’s in the middle, sharing warmth with all of them, gripping Harry’s hand tightly. Looking at their joined hands, he misses Louis acutely; but when doesn’t he miss him, when they’re not together? It’s like a scab he’s constantly picking, maybe that’s half the problem.

“So, if what Harry said is true,” Zayn says, fiddling with the zipper pull of his jacket. “Why aren’t you two fighting?”

They look at each other for a second. Niall’s mouth turns down, and he squeezes Harry’s hand before he answers. “It doesn’t work like that for me. Train rules?”

“Yeah, of course. Train rules.”

Niall closes his eyes and continues. “When we were in there, I just.” He swallows, eyes still shut. “I felt like a failure, like Harry couldn’t want me. They’ll find out what a fraud I am, they’ll find someone else. The studio will tank, no one will come to a show, no one will give the EP a listen.” Harry makes a noise of protest. Niall opens his eyes and taps them on the nose, lightly. “Shh, I know it’s not true.” He turns back to Zayn. “And that’s the thing of it. I know it’s not true. And maybe it’s just that we were friends for so long first, but. When I feel shitty like that - even if it’s about Harry - Harry’s also what makes me feel better.”

Next to Niall, Harry’s turned a delicate pink. They rummage in their pocket, eyes glistening.

“Harry,” Zayn warns. “Don’t you dare propose to Niall on this minging fucking train.”

Harry laughs thickly and leans over Niall to punch Zayn in the arm. “It’s not going to be on a minging train, don’t worry,” Harry says. They finally retrieve the crumpled tissue they were fishing for, and swab at their eyes.

Soon enough, Zayn’s stop is announced. Niall gives him a quick half-hug before he can stand up. “He’ll come around,” Niall says. “And if he doesn’t, then I’ll kill him.”

He lets himself into Louis’ dark flat, uncertainty still eating at him. And it’s dramatic, he knows, but he sits on the sofa in the sitting room, in the dark, going over and over that scene, trying to figure it out. Taking it apart, putting it back together, getting nowhere - a pointillist work that only makes sense when you’re zoomed out all the way. Otherwise, it’s just dots and space, adding up to nothing. Portrait of the artist: speckled black, smoke curling from his mouth. Will there be a bowl of cigarette butts on the table, by the time Louis gets home? Will Zayn be in three-day-old clothes, holding his head in his hands; will the shadows under his eyes stretch and deepen into smooth pools where only eyeless birds live, pecking for beetles on the muddy shore? He’s almost asleep when he hears the scratch of the key in the lock.

Louis’ familiar, loud footsteps move down the short hallway. He’s suddenly not sure what Louis will say, when he sees him sitting there. Then his face appears, pale in the dim room - part of him relaxes, he didn’t even know was tense.  

“Would have got back sooner but went by yours first,” Louis says, drifting closer to him. “Didn’t think you’d be here after everything.” He swallows, hovering just by Zayn’s knee. “And by everything, I mean me being an enormous dickhead.”

“Thought I’d come here, I guess,” Zayn says, looking up. “That way you can’t walk out.” Louis’ face falls. He sits down on the sofa next to Zayn, not close enough to touch but in reaching distance. Something whirs back into life, a critical clock gear in the middle of Zayn’s chest.

“Zee,” he starts, quietly. And Zayn hears it all in his voice: apology, confusion, his own mangled love reflected back at him.

“Hey,” Zayn says. “For once, I’m not trying to fight. Come here and look at this.” He peels back his sleeve. Up and down his arms, where he’d normally light up, a hundred points move and dance - but they’ve gone dark, black specks careening off each other.

“Shit,” Louis says, laying his hand on Zayn’s arm. His hands are like ice; despite himself, Zayn shrieks a little, jerking his arm out of Louis’ grasp.

“I’ve been trying to fix it,” Zayn says. “Though I’ve no fucking idea where to even start.”

“Well.” Louis gets up to flick the lamp on. Zayn squints against the sudden bright. “Let’s have a look, then.” He leans down, looking him over. “It’s everywhere. I mean,” he puts his hand under Zayn’s chin, tipping his head back.

“Cold,” Zayn protests, trying not to flinch away.

“Sorry,” he says, and brings Zayn’s arm up to his lips. “Again,” he adds, mouth tracing over the delicate skin there. “I’ve an idea.” He steps away from the sofa, despite Zayn’s noise of protest; will Louis never stop leaving him? This time, he only gets as far as the kitchen, at least.

“What are you doing?” Zayn asks, through a strong impulse to follow.

“Don’t worry about it.” Through the doorway, he can hear the tap running. Louis emerges in another minute. He flicks on the telly and settles next to Zayn on the couch. Close enough to touch, this time, he angles himself back so they’re facing, bumping their knees together. “Didn’t ever get to tell you about this morning in maths. One of the kids - Hughie, it was - lost his mind when we were working on numbers. Today’s lesson was an introduction to subitising, and-”

“Subitising?”

“It’s like the dots on a domino, how you know what number they stand for. Anyway, I taught them the word, put it up on the smart board in big green letters, and Hughie just started laughing - he couldn’t stop, you know how kids get. He laughed so hard, he fell out of his chair, and they all went off, every last one of them.”

Zayn can just picture it, Louis surrounded by fifteen or so five and six-year-olds, all dying of laughter at their tiny-person-sized tables.

“Did anyone wee themselves?” he asks.

“Not today. But when they quieted down, we had an early snack and everyone got an extra fifteen minutes of rest time. It was a good day.” He spreads his fingers out over Zayn’s knees, tapping random patterns on his kneecaps. “What about you?”

It’s hard to remember anything from before their shit evening, but he tries. “Heard from Anita earlier, she and Daniel got the final mix today.” He digs his phone out of his trouser pocket.

“Yeah?” Louis asks, half-smiling.

“Yeah,” he says, showing Louis the photo she sent. Daniel’s grown his hair out some, and Anita’s got her face squashed into it like a cotton ball. “They love it. What else did you get up to?” He leans his head back against the sofa, tired.

“It’s interesting that you ask,” Louis says, scooching closer. The heavy weight of his head settles on Zayn’s chest. “Got all dressed up with my favorite person tonight, went to a fancy party. Saw him talking with a fit bird, almost lost my mind.”

“Lou -”

The screaming of the kettle interrupts whatever he was about to say. Louis lifts himself off, returning in a minute with two steaming mugs. The smell of Yorkshire Red makes his throat tighten in sudden gratitude.

“Now, then.” Louis’ mouth is a determined, gentle line as he sits down again, putting his hands on Zayn’s wrists. They’re warm now, almost hot to burning from the cups of tea. Louis gives him no warning, and then he’s drenched in ice water, so cold it shocks his breath away. Louis’ lips are there, catching his breath and returning it to him, before moving on to his cheek, his jaw, his eyelids. He hits him over and over with the ice whammy, muttering shit against his jaw - Zayn can’t even catch it, he doesn’t know what Louis’ saying but it must be something good, because a knot inside of him dissolves.

“Look,” Zayn says, pulling back and holding up his hand. Like fireflies in a cave, the black specks in his fingers ignite and spread up his limbs, racing towards his center.

“Oh, thank christ,” Louis whispers, dropping his face into the crook of Zayn’s neck. His hair tickles the underside of Zayn’s chin. “You’re really not mad at me.”

“I’m not,” Zayn says, and it’s true. Somehow it all got froze away, or it was never there to begin with. “And it wasn’t all you, you know. Some of it was Bernard. But that doesn’t -”

“I know. I know. Just - come here, yeah?” He pulls Zayn down against his chest. From here, Louis’ voice is a low rumble, rising up through the crust of the earth. “I’m sorry. I know that you’re not Peter, that you wouldn’t do what he did. But it’s hard, sometimes - assuming the best instead of the worst, I mean.”

“I wouldn’t. Ever,” Zayn says.

“I’m not done yet.” He runs his fingers through Zayn’s hair, taking a big breath. “And I think I still don’t get it, not fully. Why you’re with me, when you could have anyone else.”

It’s almost heartbreaking, to hear it out of Louis’ mouth. It’d be easy - easier anyway - to show him. But sometimes Louis needs the words; sometimes everybody does. He’s surprised by the thickness of his voice when he starts to answer Louis’ question. “Louis. You’re for me,” Zayn says. “That’s my reason. And I’m for you.”

“That easy, huh?” Louis says, squeezing his arms around Zayn.

“It’s not, though. Not always. Been missing you, like. All the time. It’s hard, figuring this part out.” The steady sound of Louis’ heart, the gurgling of his stomach beneath Zayn’s ear are comforting.

“Yeah. But we’re going to, right? Figure it out?”

“Think that’s we’re doing now, innit. You and me, we’ve got -”

“A whole lot of -”

“Sharp edges,” Zayn continues. “So we’re going to scrape each other sometimes. As long as you come back, I can work with it.”

Louis sighs, raggedly. “I can do that. I’m sorry for just leaving. Are we ok?”

“Yeah,” Zayn says, snuggling his face further into Louis.

“Will you sing that lullaby from your mum?” Louis asks, sounding sleepy.

Out of everything they’ve been through tonight, this part is the easiest. Zayn begins softly, his voice half-muffled against the stiff fabric of Louis’ fancy shirt. The old, familiar Urdu blooms out of his mouth like an actual flower; his heart almost skips a beat when Louis joins in, tentative at first, then stronger. He’ll never get over the sound of their voices twining together, the way Louis moves through the foreign syllables with ease.

“Have you been practicing?” Zayn asks.

“Have to, don’t I,” Louis yawns. “If I’m going to sing it to our kids one day. Made your mum teach it to me.”

They fall asleep like that, tangled up on the sofa. Zayn wakes up some time later – it feels like eons, though it’s not even midnight, to a text from Liam.

**Avengers assembling, 10 tomorrow**

**In the morning**

**Niall’s old flat**

**Bring donuts**

**Also fire extinguisher**

“What’s that?” Louis rasps, arching below Zayn’s cheek.

“Your next montage sequence, I think.”  He slides off Louis, reaching down to haul him up.  “Let’s go to bed.”

 

 

[come say hi on tumblr](https://dinoflangellate.tumblr.com/post/178713360053/a-piece-of-night-sarcangel-one-direction)

[and see inga's incredible art)](https://dinoflangellate.tumblr.com/post/178695219018/heres-my-cover-art-for-the-1dbackforyoucollab)

 


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